Take It Out On Me
by giant-sequoia
Summary: When Michael Hawke is nearly broken after his mother is brutally murdered, Anders offers himself as an outlet for the warrior's rage. Hawke accepts, and almost immediately events spiral out of control. M!Hawke/Anders. Rated M for violence, language, sex.
1. Solace

**BEGIN**

"_Who will attain anything great if he does not find in himself the strength and the will to inflict great suffering? Being able to suffer is the least thing; [the weak] and even slaves often achieve virtuosity in that. But not to perish of internal distress and uncertainty when one inflicts great suffering and hears the cry of this suffering – that is great, that belongs to greatness."_

—Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 – 1900), _The Gay Science_ (1882)

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Solace"**

Michael Hawke had had enough of mages.

"_And... at last... her face. Oh, this beautiful face..._"

Quentin's words haunted his thoughts. Hawke could still hear that demented prick's slimy voice, whispering in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and kneaded the sides of his head, trying his hardest to banish the nightmarish image of his mother's face sewn onto a corpse. And that sick bastard, standing beside her with his oily smile and his nasty, filthy hands, touching Leandra's face like she belonged to him. _Proud_ of himself.

It wouldn't go away. Hawke would see it every day, whenever he closed his eyes, for the rest of his life.

His breath was ragged. This was why blood magic was forbidden, he thought. This was why the Chantry demanded an accounting of all mages.

"Mother," Hawke whispered. What Leandra's last hours must have been like, Hawke shuddered to contemplate. He tried to console himself that she was at peace now, at the Maker's side with his father and his siblings. He hadn't been able to save her, but at least he'd avenged her.

Of course he had killed the cretin. Violently, and at length, starting with Quentin's hands and his lips. Violence usually excited Hawke, but it hadn't this time. This time, the splatter of blood, the screaming in his ears, the sensation in his hands of his blade rending flesh – there was none of the usual thrill along his spine, the stirring in his loins. This time he'd only felt sick.

Aveline had not blamed him, but nor had she stuck around to watch. Varric had slipped away with her, wisely deciding to wait until Hawke had cooled off before offering his condolences. Even Fenris had eventually left in disgust. Only Anders had stayed with Hawke throughout the ordeal, no doubt thinking to provide wordless comfort by his presence.

Hawke hadn't been able to look at him. He wished the mage had left with the others.

In his bedchamber, Hawke gritted his teeth and paced in front of the fire. Fire made him think of rage demons. He closed the grate with a slam to let the flames die down. He crossed the room and opened the window to let the quiet of the Kirkwall night into the room. Or, perhaps, to let the heat of his fury out. The cool summer air felt soothing on his bare chest and back, but it couldn't calm the corrosive hatred that still pulsed through him like a lingering poison.

Hawke's greatsword, the one he'd had since his sixteenth birthday, was leaning inelegantly against the writing desk. Its razor-sharp length was slick with congealed blood and degenerate shade essence. His armour, similarly discarded, sat in a pile of heavy plate, some on the chair, a few pieces on the floor. Both armour and blade needed to be cleaned, badly. To get the stink of rage demon char off, let alone the reek of Hawke's own sweat and blood. And the blade would have to be oiled soon, or it would be damaged.

But he couldn't. His mother was dead. He hadn't been fast enough, and now she was gone. The last of his true family, the people who had meant the most to him in the world. She was gone and he hadn't saved her. Hawke couldn't bring himself to take care of his equipment in his current state, but he needed to do _something._ The howling, ferocious grief inside him would consume him utterly otherwise. What couldhe do?

Sleep was out of the question. Even though he was exhausted, Hawke could never sleep with his heart and his head pounding like this. He would just have nightmares. He needed a bath more than he needed sleep; he was filthy and sweaty and not all of his wounds had fully closed.

What Hawke _really_ needed, what he wanted more than anything else, was...

Hawke's fists clenched when he heard footsteps on the stairs outside his bedroom. Who was here to bother him now?

What he really needed was _release_. There was so much rage and pain and guilt churning inside him that it was all he could do not to scream.

Hawke already knew who was at his door. Bodahn would have let only one person enter at a time like this.

"I know nothing I can say will change it," said a soft voice. "I'm sorry."

Anders.

Hawke turned to look at him but said nothing. His muscular arms were folded in front of him, and he left them there. As much as he had come to care for Anders, right now all Hawke saw as he looked at him was _mage_. Not a blood mage, to be sure, but something just as foul – an abomination.

"You were lucky to have her as long as you did," Anders continued, seemingly oblivious to Hawke's smoldering glare. "And when the pain fades, that is what will be important."

Hawke rolled his eyes with a disgusted sneer and turned around to walk to his bed. He sat down heavily and rubbed his forehead, partly to try to assuage the throbbing ache buried there and partly to avoid looking at the mage who was his lover.

"Go away, Anders," Hawke said, making an effort to keep his voice neutral.

"Look... I know we don't always see eye to eye," Anders said as he approached the bed. "About more things than just templars and mages. But I care about you a lot. I'm-"

"Templars and mages," Hawke spat. His face twisted with pent-up emotion. "Always with the templars and mages. The bastard who killed my mother was a mage, remember? You were _there_, Anders!You _see_ now,why the Chantry keeps mages in the Circle? You seenow why the templars..."

He couldn't finish, choking on his grief. His hands trembled in his lap.

Anders sat down carefully on the bed beside Hawke.

"Quentin was a madman," said softly. "That's why he did this. Not because he was a mage."

"Bah!" Hawke grunted angrily, and lurched to his feet, waving a hand in dismissal. He went over to stare through the grate at the dying fire, his back to Anders. His jaw was clenched with the effort of suppressing his rage.

"I know you're angry," Anders said, still in that infuriatingly calm, supportive voice. The bed rustled as he stood. "I know you're... looking for someone to be angry _at_."

That was certainly true.

"If it helps, take it out on me," Anders continued. "I'm here for you."

Hawke turned around to stare at him. His vision was twisted. Blood pounded in his head. His breath was heavy and harsh. His fingers flexed eagerly.

Anders watched him silently, waiting for his answer.

"Don't say that unless you mean it," Hawke said in a deadly whisper.

"I do mean it," Anders said, but his voice was less certain than it had been a moment ago. Was that fear in his eyes?

Hawke was keenly aware of the racing pulse of his heart. Blood rushed to his groin. He licked his lips.

"I'm yours, Michael Hawke," Anders whispered, and Hawke lunged with one hand outstretched to deliver a powerful backhand to the mage's face.

The force of the blow knocked Anders backwards onto the bed, momentarily stunning him. For Hawke, however, the release of pent up energy was lustfully sweet. He immediately wanted to do it again, and his mind was too broken to really think about why.

"Bastard," Hawke seethed, advancing on Anders and clenching his hands into fists. "You bastard. You Maker-cursed _maleficar_!"

Anders said nothing as Hawke grabbed his wrists, squeezing them so hard that Anders couldn't help a gasp of pain. Hawke straddled him, yanking his arms up to pin his hands over his head. He gripped both of Anders's wrists with one large hand, and with his other he slapped Anders across the face. The sting on his palm was a balm on the rage in his soul, and something inside him writhed at the pleasure of it.

"Templars," Hawke hissed in Anders's ear, his breath hot on the mage's neck, "lock up mages because mages are dangerous." His free hand curled tightly through Anders's hair. "_You _are dangerous. Mages become abominations and they _kill _people." He shoved Anders on the word _kill, _squeezing the mage's wrists harder together.

Yes, Hawke thought hazily. This felt better. Much better. _Now_ his blood was pumping, like it did during a fight. He could feel his cock hardening.

Anders was looking up at him with wide, submissive eyes. He was rank with fear. Hawke leaned down to inhale against his neck, and the scent of sweat drove him into a frenzy.

His hands clawed their way down Anders's arms, pushing back the sleeves of his robe. Hawke grazed his teeth along the mage's jaw and reveled in the taste of sweat on his tongue. He wished Anders was bleeding somewhere, so he could taste the blood.

Hawke straightened and his hands crawled their way down Anders's body. He loosened the straps and buckles that held the mage's robe and coat together. He yanked the folds apart, exposing bare flesh, and his hand pressed into Anders's chest.

Anders's eyes were stung by tears from the pain he felt, mostly echoing in his face from Hawke's blows. Still, he said nothing. He watched Hawke looming over him, reading the agony etched on his face, visible even through his rage. He met Hawke's wide-eyed gaze. The warrior's pupils were dilated with the thrill of domination.

Anders had seen Hawke get excited and aggressive during sex before, which he'd enjoyed. He'd also seen Hawke enraged like he was now, but it had never been directed at him. On one hand, the thought filled him with terror. But on the other, Anders had been certain now for some time that his love for this man was strong enough to take whatever Hawke would do to him. He would do anything to soothe the pain he could read in Hawke's face, lurking behind the fury.

Even submit to this.

Hawke had managed to slip Anders's coat down around his shoulders, leaving them bare and pale in the soft light of the fire. Hawke leaned down and bit down against Anders's collarbone hard enough to leave a deep wound. Anders jerked in pain, but Hawke let out a pleased growl as he tasted blood. He straightened again, eyes half closed as he spread redness over his lips with his tongue; when Anders made as if to examine the injury with one hand, Hawke snarled and punched him brutally in the jaw.

Anders let out a whimper of pain, and Hawke forced his head to one side so he could lick up the length of the mage's neck. His teeth grazed Ander's ear.

"Don't fucking move unless I tell you to," Hawke breathed, and Anders nodded silently, as best he could with Hawke pressing his head into the coverlet.

"Turn over," Hawke commanded, raising his hips on his knees to give Anders room to obey. He did so. Hawke tugged down on Anders's robe, fingers working to loosen the buckles where necessary, drawing it further down over Anders's lithe back. He twisted around and pulled the mage's feet up to yank off his boots, tossing them onto the floor. Finally, Hawke stood up to remove the robe and coat entirely, leaving Anders naked but for his smallclothes, face down on the bed.

Anders felt the savage, agonized man behind him climb onto the bed and straddle him again. A finger traced its way up his spine, provoking a shiver from the mage. When it reached his hairline, Hawke's hand curved around his neck and squeezed, fingernails digging painfully into Anders's skin.

"Where's Justice, Anders?" Hawke taunted softly. "Where's your spirit now?"

Hawke curled his muscled calves around and under Anders's knees, keeping his legs locked in place. He leaned forward to grab Anders's wrists and pin them at his sides. Anders was effectively immobilized but for his head, but he kept himself carefully still, remembering Hawke's warning. Even so, he couldn't suppress a shudder at the faint rasp of Hawke's beard sliding up his back and over his shoulder.

A warm tongue probed into his ear, and teeth nipped at his earlobe for a moment.

"No Justice," Hawke whispered. His teeth slipped along Anders's neck and down to his shoulder; unexpectedly, he bit down hard. Anders wriggled and moaned at the intimate pain of Hawke's tongue lapping at his wound.

"There is no Justice," Hawke went on. "There was none for me, but there was vengeance. There is _only_ vengeance." He shifted himself, and Anders could feel the hard length of the warrior's erection pressing against his buttock. "You're an abomination, and your kind deserves everything they get."

Hawke's hands disappeared from his wrists for a moment, and Anders's smallclothes were suddenly ripped open, giving Hawke the access he needed. Anders heard the rustle of fabric as Hawke unfastened the laces of his trousers. He spread Anders's buttocks with his hands and spit on the tight pucker in between. Anders felt a twinge of his own desire awakening in response to the sensation of Hawke's tongue in that intimate place.

Hawke spat once and spread his saliva around the ring of muscle with his tongue. He probed inwards, unconsciously calling on skillful, well-practiced motions that made Anders gasp and twitch at the pleasure they produced. He felt a long finger push roughly into him, and he clenched his teeth at the friction.

Hawke drew his finger out and spat a few more times, lapping with his tongue before pushing his finger back in. Anders was enjoying himself enough to almost start forgetting his fear. Then the finger was gone, his hands were immobilized again, and Anders felt the hard, throbbing head of Hawke's cock pressing against his hole. Hawke pushed into him with an eager growl.

Anders gasped into the bedclothes. Hawke hadn't put enough spit back there. Not nearly enough.

Hawke, in his lust-clouded rage, either hadn't noticed or didn't care. Once the head was in, he shoved himself forward roughly, burying his cock as deep as he could with an animal groan of satisfaction. Anders's brief yell of pain was cut off by a damp, powerful hand over his mouth.

"Awww," Hawke mocked. "Too big for you? Too much at once? I recall you seemed to enjoy it last time, you little slut. You'll get used to it..."

He started to withdraw, but for Anders it was just as painful. "Besides, aren't you used to big, nasty spirits _entering-_" Hawke shoved himself back in, hard "your body?"

Anders gasped and whimpered with the pain of being invaded and stretched so roughly, but Hawke only snickered. Anders writhed beneath him, tormented as much by the discomfort and Hawke's hateful words as he was by the creeping suspicion that at least some of his lover's mockery was true. He _was _an abomination.

And why hadn't Justice emerged to fight back? Leandra's death wasn't _his _fault. He felt no surges of magic crackling to the surface, no irrational compulsion to attack or even to defend himself. But he'd told Hawke he was there for him, and he'd meant it.

Perhaps Justice, too, was ashamed of what they had become.

A brief moment of rationality made Hawke give Anders a minute to adjust to the thick, rigid cock buried so deeply inside him. The warrior soon grew impatient, however, and began to pump himself in and out with escalating rigour. Anders's hands were pinned at his sides, and he felt Hawke's tongue and teeth exploring his neck and upper back. The injury on his shoulder was aggravated by an eager tongue, and Hawke let out a lustful growl. The sound of his rhythmic grunts and the harsh smack of his meaty thighs against Anders's buttocks grew until they filled the room.

Anders gradually grew accustomed to Hawke's rapid, brutal pace, but the pain never entirely went away. He continued to remind himself that he was helping the man he loved purge himself of pain and anger. Hawke had always been aggressive and dominant in bed, but he had never been this savage. Even so, he was still the man Anders knew and loved as Michael Hawke. In a twisted sort of way, he was able to enjoy it.

For his part, Hawke was lost in his own carnal pleasure. The thrill of blood on his tongue and the hot, tight body around his cock, his frenzied thrusting fueled by the heat of his rage, all but washed away the pain he felt. He yanked on Anders's hands and bit him on his neck and shoulders a few more times, reveling in the coppery warmth of blood on his tongue. He pounded his length into Anders and manhandled the mage as roughly as he wanted, and it aroused him as nothing had ever done before. In the past, he'd taken care to avoid injuring his lover or being too rough during sex. Now that he knew the thrill he'd been missing, the idea seemed insane.

Presently, as Hawke neared his climax, his pace increased and he leaned down to grind against Anders's back, kissing and sucking on his neck. The force of Hawke's thrusts rocked his entire body.

"Yeah..." Hawke grunted, and made a long, inarticulate groan of pleasure as his mouth traveled upwards, beard bristling against Anders's neck and jaw.

"You're going to take my seed," Hawke murmured against his ear. His hands on Anders's wrists were painfully tight. "Up inside you, like a good little slut. Take my seed, you piece of shit... fucking _abomination_... take it. You're mine." He groaned again and shuddered against Anders's back. "You're _mine_!"

With a powerful thrust he erupted inside Anders, growling and snarling his savage pleasure. It went on for a while. Hawke's thrusting slowed, but he remained steady and forceful as he continued to ejaculate shot after shot of warm spunk deep into the trembling mage.

Eventually his frantic pace slowed to a gradual halt, and Hawke collapsed on top of Anders, still buried in him balls deep. Both of them were panting as if they'd just climbed Sundermount at a dead run.

"Mine," Hawke growled again softly in Anders's ear, and nipped his earlobe. He rested against the mage's back for a moment, still breathing harshly. Anders squirmed a little, having a difficult time catching his breath with the heavy, muscular warrior lying on top of him. Hawke's chin was nestled in the hollow of his shoulder, but he had grown still. Anders tried again to move, but he was still tightly pinned.

Hawke seemed to notice that Anders was still panting and rolled off of him to lie on his back on the bed nearby. His cock slipped out of Anders's abused hole with a slick noise and fell, still semi-hard, against his belly.

Anders could only be glad that the ordeal was over, but he found in a strange way that he had enjoyed the intimacy. Not from the pain and humiliation he had endured, but because it had been with Hawke. He wondered if Hawke would want to take total control of him like that again, or if their lovemaking would return to how they had done it until now.

It was difficult to tell, but Anders felt like something had changed between them. He hadn't felt this afraid of Hawke since they had met.

Minutes passed in silence, and the light of the fire grew dimmer as it decayed into embers. For some time the only audible noises were soft breathing and the whisper of the breeze entering the room through the window.

Anders thought Hawke must have fallen asleep. The warrior stank of sweat and blood, like he always did, but with the added tinge of musk and sex. The scent was strangely calming. Anders was thinking he really should have bathed, but he was starting to drift off himself, and his thoughts grew fuzzy.

Abruptly, Hawke pushed himself up into a sitting position. He was still awake, and his sudden activity brought Anders back into full awareness as well. He chanced a glance at Hawke, but the warrior was facing away from him, his legs over the side of the bed, and didn't notice. Anders watched him discreetly.

Hawke stared into the sullen glow of the coals on the other side of the grate. His hands were still on the coverlet beside him. His shoulders hunched, rising and falling slightly with his breath; he was otherwise motionless for a long time.

Eventually Hawke stood up and walked around the bed, over to the window. He leaned against the sill and stared out over the moonlit cityscape of Hightown.

Anders didn't move, but from his prone position on the bed he was easily able to watch what Hawke was doing. The warrior stood there for a while, his nude glory limned by moonlight, apparently lost in thought.

Then Hawke covered his eyes with one hand and his shoulders started to heave.

For a fearful moment, it seemed like he was laughing, and Anders was sure that Hawke's ordeal had utterly broken him. Then he heard quiet sobbing, and his heart melted with tender concern.

"Maker's breath," Hawke whispered, so quietly Anders could barely hear him. "Maker's breath, what... what... have I done? What _am_ I?"

Anders couldn't bear to see the man he loved in such obvious pain, even after he had treated him so brutally. Anders pushed himself to his hands and knees and then swung his body around to bring himself to his feet on the soft carpet. He crept up behind Hawke, unsure if his comfort would be accepted or not.

When Hawke felt Anders's cool hand on his shoulder, he stiffened. He said nothing, refusing to look at the mage, his breath ragged. Anders turned Hawke around by his shoulders and folded him in his arms.

For another agonizing moment, Hawke was frozen, unyielding. Then he accepted Anders's embrace, utterly lost, weeping into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm sorry."

Anders shook his head, whispering soothing words into Hawke's ear. He had been purged of the pain, the guilt and the rage that had been killing him. Now the natural catharsis of grief could take over, and the long process of healing could begin. There was nothing for him to be sorry about.

Anders said as much, among other things, and Hawke was pliant in his hands. The beast he had become was gone, replaced by a broken, anguished man. Noting the heat of Hawke's skin, Anders allowed a soft trickle of cool magic to wash over them, soothing the few wounds from the battle earlier that had not healed.

"You _bastard_," Hawke said thickly.

For a moment, Anders was shocked into silence. What? Surely he wasn't...

"You bastard. Why do you have to be so... so...?" He seemed to be struggling to find the right word, and at once the mage understood.

"Here for you, no matter what it costs me?" Anders suggested.

Hawke nodded against his shoulder.

Anders drew apart from the warrior enough to place a gentle kiss on his lips. Their foreheads touched, and Anders stared into Hawke's emerald eyes.

"Because you're Hawke," he said. "I'm yours."

**Ω**


	2. Quickening

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Quickening"**

Hawke hefted his trusty greatsword, freshly oiled, and appraised its gleam in the firelight. He found himself wanting to hone it again. It was razor-sharp and absurdly deadly, but it had gathered a few new nicks over the past few days. It hadn't been that long, really, since he'd sharpened it last – just a few days before...

His expression darkened into a scowl. Just a few days before the demented blood mage had killed his mother.

Hawke glanced over his shoulder. Upstairs, past the balustrade on the mezzanine, the door to his bedroom was slightly ajar, He could not see any movement inside, and if Anders was making any noise, it was inaudible from where Hawke stood.

He could still scarcely believe his own behaviour the previous night, and it was easier not to think about it. But the experience was still vivid and fresh, difficult not to relive in his mind over and over. It felt like he had been a different person then – lost in rage and grief, changed by his pain into an unthinking, savage animal who could do nothing but vent into the nearest outlet. And that had been Anders.

Even now, Hawke could feel some part of him enjoying the memory and yearning to do it again. He could not forget the seductive power he had felt with the mage completely at his mercy. The idea crossed his mind to go upstairs and do it all again, except harder than before and for longer. It really had been over too quickly.

Hawke palmed his forehead and tried to focus himself. He needed to divert these dangerous energies elsewhere. Anders hadn't killed his mother. Anders could be damned stupid about templars and mages, and he occasionally became whiney, but Hawke still cared about him – more than anyone else alive, now that Leandra was gone. He couldn't treat him like he had last night. It was a terrible way to treat any person, let alone one who had given him so much trust and affection. It was a betrayal, and spouting verbal abuse throughout and calling him an abomination just made it worse. _Hawke_ was the real monster.

He could never do it again, no matter how much he ached to... no matter how good it had felt.

But then there was the fact of Anders's reaction. Hawke would not have been surprised if Anders had left the moment he was able and never looked back. He had expected shock and hurt, horror, disgust, active resistance... but never, _never_ could Hawke have expected forgiveness and understanding. It was so far beyond what he considered possible, so completely alien to the way his mind worked, that Hawke was still not sure whether he had dreamed that conversation by the window.

A bell rang somewhere in the mansion, indicating a visitor at the front door. Hawke grunted in annoyance and put his sword down carefully on the writing desk. Probably another simpering noble come to offer condolences on the death of a woman they had never met or cared about, but who thought they could worm their way into Hawke's good graces by acting consoling. Bodahn would deal with it.

He heard the door open, but the conversation seemed to be going for longer than it would take for Bodahn to disabuse the hopeful noble of their delusions. Reluctantly, Hawke went to the antechamber to see what was going on.

Bodahn offered a tip to a young elven boy, who accepted it and ran off. He closed the door and turned to Hawke, holding a sealed envelope.

"Ah! Messere Hawke. Urgent message for you, from Guard-Captain Aveline, I believe." He offered the envelope and Hawke took it.

"Thank you, Bodahn. Go check on Anders, please, and wake him up if he's asleep."

Bodahn left to do his bidding, and Hawke broke the wax seal of the Kirkwall City Guard. His eyes scanned the message rapidly, his brain working through the information and a dark smile creeping over his face. It was indeed from Aveline. She was a good woman. Though she frequently disapproved of his choices, sometimes rather harshly, she still seemed to consider him a friend. Rather than trying to offer solace for Leandra's death, she instead knew exactly what would cheer him up, and acted on that knowledge. What a wonderful coincidence that the situation her missive described should crop up less then twenty-four hours after his need to indulge in mindless carnal violence had increased so dramatically.

Voices echoed to him from deeper in the mansion, and Hawke returned to the common room where he'd left his sword. Anders was standing on the mezzanine above him, looking down.

Hawke paused. For the first time in a long while, his acerbic tongue failed him. What did one say to one's lover after doing... what he'd done?

"Hawke," Anders said. "Is everything...?"

_Was everything okay_. That was what Anders asked him, the morning after Hawke had essentially beaten and raped him. Guilt rose in him like the bitter taste of bile creeping into his mouth. He squinted and avoided the mage's eyes.

"Yes," Hawke muttered. "I... uh, I need your help. If you're able and – and willing."

Hawke had killed darkspawn, including ogres and emissaries, qunari, dragons, giant spiders, demons, abominations, undead, and countless humans, elves, and dwarves with varying qualities of equipment – all without blinking, except when blood splattered in his eyes. And that just made him grin, because it made the fight more of a challenge, and because blood in his eyes was usually accompanied by blood in his mouth – which tasted good. How peculiar in that light that he found himself unable to make eye contact with the man he'd so enjoyed abusing the previous night, and who this morning seemed to have completely forgiven him for it.

"Of course," Anders said. "I'm here for you. Whatever you need."

This cannot be real, Hawke thought. He cannot mean that.

And yet he did. _I don't deserve you, Anders_.

**ασυνέχεια**

"_Varric_!"

The dwarf in question leapt, startled from his blissful reverie by the shout, and spilled a copious quantity of ale on his lap. He cursed, tried to wipe the offending beverage off his duster, gave it up as a lost cause, and looked up. It was Hawke, of course, and predictably, Anders was with him.

"I need you. Meet me outside in five minutes." Hawke stormed away.

"All right..." Varric said, still recovering. He left his mostly-empty tankard on the table and crossed to the window of the Hanged Man to look outside. It was near midday. That was unusual – if Hawke wanted his help, he tended to come early in the morning or late at night.

It occurred to Varric that he hadn't yet offered his sympathies for Leandra's death. Then again, he'd somewhat assumed Hawke would want to take a few days off from adventuring to grieve, rather than going out to kill things more or less immediately.

Inwardly, Varric rolled his eyes as he realized his error. Killing things was how Michael Hawke expressed himself. The only real surprise was that Hawke hadn't shown up sooner.

Varric looked at Anders. The mage was fiddling with his staff, passing it from hand to hand distractedly and not paying attention to the dwarf.

"Problems, Blondie?" Varric asked meaningfully. Anders looked at him.

"He wants to go out to the coast," the mage said. "Find some raiders and kill them in the usual fashion." Meaning carve them up with his massive sword, and get off on the blood he spilt. Varric tried not to shudder. "Aveline got word that some of her guards are pinned down or... got caught in an ambush, or something."

His voice trailed off. He seemed disinterested.

Varric looked at Anders closely, his interest piqued. He himself had received that same information from one of his contacts. He'd also heard that a blood mage was involved.

It didn't greatly interest him either – no business of his would be immediately affected by the debacle however it ended, and whatever ripples that eventually made their way to him could be dealt with then without having to fight angry criminals and blood mages. Varric often found the most prudent way to deal with these kinds of situations was to let the crazy people who wanted to kill each other do so at their leisure, and then pick up what he could for himself as the dust settled, in relative safety.

So much for that plan. If Hawke wanted Varric's help, he would get it. Varric owed him that much.

"You know there's a blood mage out there too, Blondie," he said cautiously. "Fell Orden, I think they called him. Real vicious bastard."

"Right. Aveline mentioned him," Anders replied. "Merrill's coming to help deal with Orden. Hawke's gone to find Isabela... he'll want her to disarm traps, and you to snipe... and I think Aveline will come to lead her guards."

Varric's eyebrows shot up. Useful information, all, but utterly devoid of any ranting or railing about blood mages and how they gave all "innocent" mages a bad name etcetera. Varric had never known Anders to pass up such obvious bait. Something else was going on here.

Surreptitiously, Varric examined the blonde mage as he passed his staff back and forth, still staring absently at nothing in particular. Was that the shadow of a bruise on his face? And... another on his neck, and more on his wrists? Anders was the kind of healer-type mage that Varric would never not be friends with if he could help it. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen him with any kind of injury at all, outside of active combat.

And had Hawke seemed surlier than usual, when he barged into the tavern just now making demands? He had never been the friendliest guy, and his mother had just been brutally killed, of course, but...

Varric stopped himself. That was enough reason to be surly, really. But he could help neither his curiosity nor his imagination. There were clues all over this situation that smacked of a good story. If such a story existed, he'd be damned if he didn't find out what it was.

And if it didn't, well... he could always make it up. Michael Hawke and his mage lover were simply too good characters to waste.

**Ω**


	3. Precipice

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Precipice"**

As always, Hawke led the way, greatsword resting on his armoured shoulder, as the group traveled down the barren sandy path towards the Wounded Coast. The midday sun gleamed on his heavy plate, cleaned just that morning. Aveline walked beside him, scanning the area ahead, her armour gleaming almost brighter than his. Intentionally, Varric figured. On Hawke's other side, his Mabari warhound Reaver walked proudly.

Merrill was wandering along behind Aveline, alternately paying more attention to the scrubby nearby plant life or interesting cloud formations than where she was placing her feet. Varric kept an eye on her as she went, making sure to warn her of encroaching obstacles.

Anders was trailing Hawke, still apparently lost in thought, but never taking his eyes off the back of Hawke's head. Varric and Isabela took up the rear.

"Varric," Isabela whispered. "Check out Anders. What's going on there, you think?"

Varric glanced at her, then at the mage. From behind, the bruises on Anders's neck and wrists were rather more prominent. A strange dynamic had emerged between Anders and Hawke since they'd left the noisy bustle of Kirkwall, and the more Varric watched them, the less inclined he felt to make up a story about it.

From time to time, Hawke glanced back at Anders briefly, as if to make sure he was still following. Varric couldn't distinguish the scowl Hawke gave Anders from the scowl he gave everyone, and in fact wore most of the time even when not looking at anybody. But without fail, every time Hawke looked back, Anders looked down, breaking eye contact.

Aware of Isabela's curious half-smile, Varric looked away and didn't answer. To him, it seemed rather obvious, and disturbing. He was surprised Isabela hadn't picked it up yet.

"Those are _bruises_ on his wrists, aren't they?" Isabela continued softly, not loudly enough for anyone else to hear. She sounded deeply amused. "I know restraint marks when I see them. Hawke and Anders have a... a dom-sub thing going on, don't they?"

Varric's eyebrows shot up and he revised his opinion of Isabela's powers of perception.

"How _hot_ is that?" Isabela went on. "When did this happen, and why did nobody tell me?"

"A 'dom-sub thing'?" Varric whispered back dryly. "Is that what they call it?"

"_You_ know," Isabela murmured, meaningfully. "One's dominant, the other's submissive. Isn't it obvious?" she scoffed. "I mean, clearly Hawke's always been the one in charge there... five minutes after meeting the two of them, I had Hawke down as the pitcher and Anders as the catcher. But this... this is new. This thing they have going on. Kind of exciting, don't you think?" Her tone became excessively sensual. "Two big strapping, handsome men... one rather more strapping than the other, of course..."

"Exciting?" Varric looked at her, remembering just in time to keep his voice down. "Where do you find excitement in sexual abuse, Rivaini?"

"Abuse!" Isabela smothered her laughter with a gloved hand. "It's not abuse if he likes it! Come on, Varric. Do you really think a mage like Anders, with a spirit of Justice in his head to boot, would just _let_ a big beefy guy like Hawke, known to favour templars over mages, smack him around if he didn't enjoy it just as much?"

Varric's eyes widened. He hadn't considered that. He thought he'd been expressing friendly concern, for Anders's well-being and Hawke's mental health. But that was somewhere he did _not_ want to go. Storyteller though he was, there were lines even he would not cross. Good thing he hadn't said anything yet!

Still...

"Okay," he said carefully, still under his breath. "But don't you find it odd that last night, Hawke's mother was killed as part of a sick, nasty, revolting plot by a blood mage to resurrect his dead wife whose face happened to resemble Leandra's, and today Hawke's all gung-ho for killing again, but now Anders is bruised and submissive?"

Isabela raised her eyebrows and nodded, puckering her lips. "Huh. Never thought of that. It makes a lot more sense now, actually."

"What?" Varric didn't trouble to keep his voice down this time, and Merrill looked at him curiously. Hawke and Aveline didn't seem to notice, however, and Anders just kept staring at Hawke.

Varric threw up his arms. "I don't get that at all," he said, once more in an undertone. "You know more about this kind of crap than I do, Rivaini. But if you think Anders is in danger... or... or _something_, you let me know immediately, yeah?"

"Don't you worry, Varric," Isabela said, clearly still amused. "I'll explain it to you later, if you want."

"That won't be necessary."

"Varric?" Merrill asked, drifting back towards them like a fluff of dandelion on a gentle breeze. "Is something wrong?"

"We're good, Daisy. Just keep walking." Varric shuddered inwardly at the thought of having to explain the newfound depth of Hawke's relationship with Anders to the naïve elf. Of course, she was a blood mage, so getting from violence and blood to pleasure and power was probably a lot less of a conceptual leap for her than it was for him.

This line of thought only led to imagining Merrill in the kind of situation Anders was now in, another idea he was all too happy to avoid. Varric looked around for a distraction; his eyes settled on Hawke's dog.

"Do you think Hawke was being a bit too obvious," he muttered to Isabela, "naming his warhound 'Reaver'?"

"It suits him, don't you think?" Isabela replied. "He's just like his master, really. I wouldn't want that thing charging at me."

"It seems... uncreative," Varric said. "Hawke does enough reaving all on his own."

"What would you suggest instead?"

Varric thought about it, glad to have something else to distract him from his overactive imagination. "Something utilitarian, maybe? Something that describes the dog's function, like... Bloodrender."

"Oh, perfect," Isabela said sarcastically. "'Bloodrender' is an absolutely _charming_ name for a dog. Why didn't I think of that? 'Here, boy! C'mere, Bloodrender! There's a good doggy! Who's a vicious, bloodthirsty puppy! You are! Yes, _you_ are!'"

Varric couldn't help chuckling. When she put it like that...

"How about Bonechewer?" Isabela continued. "He does actually do that, I've seen him."

"Or Limbripper," Varric suggested.

"Headcrusher."

"Skullsmasher."

"Bandit-eater."

Varric snorted. "Thug-mauler?"

"Heart-and-lifeblooddrinker."

"Are we talking about Hawke's dog or Hawke?" Varric had noticed earlier that Hawke hadn't brought his helmet, which he only did when in a particularly vicious mood.

"Leghumper," said Isabela, snickering.

"Eyeplucker!" Varric crowed. "I swear I saw him do that to a genlock in the Deep Roads."

"Duke."

Varric looked at her, surprised. "Where did that come from?"

"We had a dog on the ship once named Duke," Isabela said. "He killed rats like nothing else. Amazing."

Varric was about to reply when Hawke held up his hand and called for a halt.

"We're entering enemy territory," he said brusquely. "They have archers and mages. Keep low and keep it down unless absolutely necessary!"

Varric and Isabela glanced at each other. Varric hefted Bianca from her strap on his back, and Isabela fingered her knives. The time for lightheartedness was over, apparently.

**ασυνέχεια**

Lieutenant Harley eyed the approaching party from her position crouched behind a boulder. A few other guards were with her, all wounded to some degree and looking relieved at their newly arrived company.

Lieutenant Harley was less enthusiastic.

"Five fighters and a dog?" she said as the party joined the guards, taking cover behind the boulder. Merrill tripped over a root and only barely managed not to fall into Aveline's lap.

"Captain, I appreciate that you've come," said Harley, "but... the Marauders are here in force, and they're well-entrenched. We're going to need more than six more blades and a Mabari charger." Her eyes went to Merrill, and the obvious, unspoken addendum hung in the air.

Hawke laughed nastily but said nothing. Harley looked uncomfortable.

"These are no ordinary fighters I've brought, Lieutenant," Aveline said calmly. "The elf is a mage. She might be..." Aveline cast her gaze around the people she had brought with her "...tied for the second most dangerous person here. Not counting me."

Harley's eyes widened and she looked at Merrill with new respect. Varric wondered if she would have accepted that assessment of the waif-like Dalish from anyone but Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen. He tried not to snicker as Harley's gaze moved around the others, obviously wondering who had tied Merrill for second most dangerous. Personally, Varric rather liked to think it was himself Aveline had had in mind as Merrill's match, but it could just as easily have been Isabela or Anders.

"As you say, Captain," Harley said. "The Marauders are-"

She was cut off but a shout from the cliffs above them. "No fair, guard dog! You've brought friends!"

Hawke looked up, his eyes coming alive.

"Shut your mouth!" Harley yelled back.

In answer, an arrow whistled down from the heights, right at them. Varric barely had time to say "Look-" before one of the guards recoiled, writhing in pain, a gory mist of blood spraying from his neck where the arrow had punctured. Raucous laughter echoed down from the cliffs.

Hawke was starting to breathe faster, staring at the blood fountaining from the dying man, his pupils dilating and his grip tightening on his sword. Varric hadn't even seen him draw it from its scabbard on his back.

After an interminable period of agonized gurgles, the soldier's thrashing finally subsided and he became still. Rage clouded Harley's face as Aveline reached out to gently close the dead man's eyes.

"Bastards," Harley hissed. "They'll pay. I'll make them pay. But this will be difficult, even with mages on our side. They heavily outnumber-"

"Oh, don't worry about that," Hawke cut her off. "Who are these people? Tell me everything you know. No – everything I need to know."

Harley looked at him in surprise, then at Aveline. The captain nodded.

"Evets' Marauders," said Harley. "Bloody raiders... they've been terrorizing the coast, robbing and raping for Maker knows how long. Fell Orden's here – he's a blood mage. Viktor Longdeath's handiwork you just saw. I'm not sure how many others they've got, but they have more than we did when we got here, and they've been picking us off with arrows and fireballs."

"She's not kidding," Isabela said. "I've heard of the Marauders. Even other raiders are scared of them."

Hawke nodded, and let go of his sword briefly to give Reaver a rub. His eyes were alive with malice, but his expression was otherwise blank, processing information.

"Right," he said. "Here's how this is going to work. Reaver and I are going to charge their lines."

"What?" one of the guards cut in. "You're crazy, serah! The mage will send you to meet the Maker before you get three steps!"

Hawke looked at him, and the defiance left the man's face instantly. Perhaps the obvious fear in his eyes made Hawke feel bad, a little bit.

"Enchantment," Hawke said, clapping his gauntleted fist over his breastplate with a hollow _clang_. "The amount of lyrium in this metal could pay your salary for ten years. Don't worry about me and don't interrupt me again."

The guard nodded, abashed, clearly regretting having spoken in the first place.

"Varric, I want you to hang back and snipe anyone you can," Hawke resumed. "Prioritize any archers you see that look halfway competent, or who look like they might be targeting my dog."

"Will do, Hawke," Varric said.

"Isabela – stay out of sight and disable any traps you can find."

Isabela pouted.

"Alright," Hawke relented. "By all means, slit as many throats as is convenient, but if I end up with my leg caught in a metal claw while the blood mage is still alive, I'm going to be angry. At you."

The glare he gave her silenced any flippant comeback Isabela might have had forthcoming, and she nodded her assent.

"Merrill," Hawke said, but was cut off as a fireball blasted against the boulder they were sheltering behind. The ground trembled, and they were all seared with intense heat and pelted by falling debris.

"Merrill – deal with the blood mage," Hawke said when he had recovered, as if nothing had happened. "Mostly what I want you to focus on is preventing him from using his spells on me or Reaver, and secondarily on anyone else of ours. If you see an opportunity to make the kill, take it. Otherwise, hang back and keep yourself alive. Throw out some curses if you feel like it."

"I'll do my best, Hawke," Merrill said.

"Anders," Hawke said.

"Yes." The mage had been silent throughout, his steady gaze on Hawke never wavering. Now he became alert and attentive.

"Protect Varric and Merrill, and Isabela if you can keep track of her," Hawke said.

"Yes. I will."

"Don't use any healing magic on me unless I ask you to, or if I'm obviously about to die," Hawke went on.

Harley looked shocked, as did the other guards. Aveline looked like she was beginning to regret asking Hawke for help. Her frown had been growing increasingly severe during Hawke's speech, and when he was finished, she spoke.

"And what about me, Hawke? My guards-"

"Will get themselves killed," Hawke finished for her. "They can hang back here, and leave once the raiders are distracted enough. You..." he looked at Aveline appraisingly, and a brief smile quirked his lips. "You I would not turn away, if you want to help."

"Yes, I want to help, and so do the guards," Aveline said angrily.

Beside and behind her, Varric saw a few of the remaining guards raise eyebrows, as if tempted to mention that they would happily leave everything to Hawke and his group. None of them were brave enough to say so to their captain, however.

"I agree," said Harley. "We've managed to get them pinned here, at great cost – if we leave and your suicidal charge fails, they could get away. It might be years before we get another chance like this."

"I appreciate your efforts," Hawke said, his voice and face empty of irony. "But I'll take it from here."

Harley still looked indecisive, Aveline annoyed.

"I would get out while you can, if I were you," Varric offered. "He does this a lot. Those raiders will have no idea what hit them. You'll live if you leave now. You might not if you don't."

Harley pursed her lips and looked at Aveline. She sighed and nodded.

"Wait until you're sure the raiders can't fire on you," she ordered. "Protect the most seriously wounded as you retreat. If anyone is fit to act as a runner, send word to the Keep, but otherwise wait for me up the path."

"Captain," Harley said. "Maybe you should come with us."

"You should, really," Hawke agreed.

Aveline glared at him. "No. I am coming with you."

Hawke shrugged. "Alright then. Isabela, check the main path there for traps, then maybe try slipping around the side path. Merrill, Varric, Anders – get yourselves ready. Aveline – you want to charge their lines with me?"

"Of course."

"Wait for Isabela's signal, then."

"Good luck, Captain – Hawke," Harley said. A few of the guards echoed her sentiment, but Hawke barely heard them, already focused on the coming battle.

Varric deployed and loaded Bianca, and ensured his supply of bolts was close at hand. He'd brought a few flasks of miasmic potion and a sticky tar bomb which also might come in handy. By the time he looked up from checking his equipment, Isabela had already vanished. Hawke had his arm around Reaver and whispering in his ear. The dog was utterly still, its eyes focused on Hawke.

A brief, shrill whistle resounded from the cliffs – Isabela's signal.

"Go, Reaver!" Hawke yelled. The Mabari charged, Hawke immediately behind him, greatsword poised. Aveline followed a moment later, sword and shield ready.

Varric, Merrill, and Anders followed at a more relaxed pace, but all were tense and alert. Up ahead, as Aveline's gleaming armour disappeared around a bluff; screams and clashes could already be heard in the heights.

Varric sniped two archers who made the mistake of showing themselves, and Merrill shot a bolt of spirit magic at a third, blasting a hole in his head.

"Merrill," Anders said. "Maybe climb up there where he was? You'd have a good view from up there, and cover."

Merrill glanced up, all trace of sweetness and innocence having evaporated in the heat of battle. "Yes, I think you're right, Anders. Will you be able to hear me up there, if I need help?"

"I'll protect you," Anders said. His own staff was alight with blue energy, crawling around his arms and legs in a silent display of sorcery.

Merrill tapped her staff on the ground; a bundle of roots erupted from the ground and surrounded her, then retreated just as quickly, taking her with them. She reappeared high on the cliff, the only sign of her passage a slight depression in the ground.

Varric and Anders rounded the bluff, passing several defunct claw traps and a snapped tripwire on the way. They reached the relatively open plateau where the raiders were camped.

Hawke was in the middle of the area, swinging his sword in great arcs that carved into multiple men at a time. Several were lying around him in spreading pools of blood, screaming and missing limbs. Reaver fought beside his master, snapping and snarling at anyone who tried to attack Hawke from behind.

Aveline was engaged with several raiders at once, her back against a bluff and her shield fending off their blows. She stabbed out every now and then, but most of her attention was kept on keeping herself alive.

Varric crouched behind the edge of the bluff and peered around. The blood mage was nowhere in sight; neither was Isabela. There were at least forty men and women wearing patchwork armour and carrying mismatched weapons in the clearing; several of them were attacking Aveline, but most were focused on Hawke and Reaver.

Hawke lunged at two men who were charging him. His greatsword took off one man's head in a single swipe, and the other's charge was stopped dead as Hawke's gauntleted fist collided with his face and caved it in. Hawke swung his sword around behind him, spinning with it, severing a man's legs at the knees and letting out a roar of laughter in his deranged glee. Reaver pounced on the screaming, mutilated man, tearing into his face with his teeth.

As Hawke's momentum carried him to one side, Varric took the opportunity to launch several bolts from Bianca, kneecapping from behind three of the men attacking Aveline. She didn't waste the opportunity, lunging out from the cover of her shield to end their lifes with swift, brutal efficiency. Her face showed none of Hawke's manic bloodlust, only stone cold concentration.

Hawke was now surrounded by a ring of raiders; they seemed to be intending to charge him all at once, but each was too afraid to get close without backup.

"COME ON!" Hawke bellowed, spit and blood flying from his mouth. His armour and sword were drenched; his hair was soaked, and his face and hands were splattered liberally with red. His eyes were wide and crazed, his bloodlust held in check only by a thin veneer of rationality. Varric didn't blame the raiders one bit for their fear.

Hawke turned in a circle, chest heaving, eyes darting from target to target. Reaver kept behind him, defending his back. Several raiders shifted as well, apparently trying to evade Hawke's attention. A few passed by a bush near the edge of the cliffs; Isabela popped into view and neatly slit their throats before disappearing again.

A shout went up, and archers in the cliffs peppered the location Isabela had appeared with arrows, but the missiles were deflected harmlessly by a shield of energy conjured by Anders.

Several of the more intelligent raiders immediately looked around for the enemy mage, but Anders had slipped back behind the bluff with Varric, keeping out of sight.

Hawke's patience came to an abrupt end; he yelled a battle cry and charged, sword raised threateningly. The raiders in his direct path scattered, while those behind and to either side immediately closed in, brandishing their own swords, axes, and maces.

Varric selected one of his rare and valuable explosive bolts and fired it into the mass of charging men and women. It detonated in their midst in a fiery bloom, to a chorus of crashes and screams and bodies flying in every direction. Reaver let out a series of approving and challenging barks, and Varric smiled.

Hawke was back in the thick of combat, slicing and carving at his assailants. Several of the raiders engaging Aveline were breaking away from her to help their comrades. Varric found himself once again amazed that Hawke could dance among so many blades and arrows and escape fatal injury. By the look of it, he was bleeding from several cuts on his face, hands, and forearms, but he was covered in so much blood that it was difficult to tell how much of it was his.

Trusting Hawke to do what he did best, Varric turned his attention to searching for archers among the cliffs. He picked off a few, helped once by Merrill; a disoriented archer collapsed out of Varric's range, but the elven mage dispatched the man with a magical rocklike missile.

"Varric, down!" Anders yelled, and Varric dropped without thinking. A crossbow bolt soared over his head from behind, and his pounding heart clenched with fear at how close it had been. He spun around to face their ambushers just as a magical explosion rocked the battlefield, sending him careening forward. Fell Orden had timed his appearance well, it seemed.

Four men and a woman were charging up the path towards Varric and Anders; three more hung back with arrows nocked and ready. Varric struggled to his feet in time to knock an attacker on the head with Bianca, forcing him backwards.

Anders swung his staff in an arc before them, showering the raiders with razor sharp spears of ice. Several were seriously wounded and all were slowed by the intense cold that erupted suddenly; Anders protected himself and Varric with a buffer of cloudy magic.

The distraction gave Varric time to find his feet and load several more bolts into Bianca. Anders knocked the chargers further down the path with a wave of force, so Varric targeted the archers. One fell to his bolts, but a second managed to fire; Varric ducked, and a magical shield surrounded him in time to protect him.

The third archer collapsed rather suddenly, a dagger sprouting from his eye. Varric was briefly surprised before he recognized Isabela's handiwork. At least, he assumed it was her; he hadn't seen her since she appeared on the other side of the clearing, and he had no idea where she might have thrown the knife from. He made a mental note to thank her later.

Anders was shooting electricity from his staff at the raiders who had regained their feet, fatally electrocuting them. Varric finished off the rest with several well-placed bolts. Their immediate danger having passed, the magical shields protecting the archer and mage dropped. Both turned at once back to the larger battle still raging behind them.

Fell Orden hovered above the battlefield, protected by a magical barrier himself, and attacking Hawke with bloody, spidery bands of energy. None of Orden's attacks reached Hawke, however – all were neutralized before they reached him by opposing arcs of blood magic. Merrill was doing her job.

Aveline had left her defensible position and was engaging several fighters off to one side. Hawke was carving apart the remaining raiders still swarming him, with wide, vicious swings and gouts of blood. Not many remained alive – there were perhaps eight or ten, but Hawke himself was also clearly tiring. Reaver was wounded, moving with a slight limp; his mouth and paws obscenely bloodied and his fur matted with red, but he continued to faithfully protect his master's back.

Varric shot an explosive bolt at Fell Orden's shield, but immediately afterwards wished he hadn't. The bolt exploded, heat and flame washing uselessly around the spherical barrier. A few raiders were singed, but Orden was unharmed – all Varric had accomplished was to draw his attention.

Orden snarled and pointed his staff directly at Varric. Bloody lightning lanced outwards right at him; Orden poured all his energy into the magical assault, dropping his shield. Varric dove for the relative safety of the bluff, but it was impossible to know if he would make it. He had evaded death countless times before – he couldn't help wondering if this was it.

Merrill and Anders stepped in, however. A few tendrils of the elf's blood magic materialized from the air and neutralized much of Orden's power, and the rest was absorbed by a powerful shield Anders raised before them both. The impact visibly shook the mage; he fell to his knees and his eyes and skin flared blue, the spirit of Justice he harboured lurking anxiously just below the surface.

"Thanks," Varric gasped, climbing to his feet and helping Anders stand.

The mage's reply was lost in the deafening bang of another magical explosion; Merrill, it seemed, had taken advantage of Orden's sudden lack of protection. Bodies, pieces of bodies, rocks, and dust flew in every direction; Anders's shield absorbed much of the blast, but both mage and dwarf were still knocked from their feet once again. Through the ringing in his ears, Varric heard Hawke's distinctive crazed laugh and Reaver barking.

His head ringing from the bang, Varric went to one knee and raised Bianca – if there was going to be magical pyrotechnics, he wanted a more stable stance. The air was still filled with dust, and Fell Orden, Hawke and Reaver, and Aveline were invisible.

Isabela materialized out of the dust and slipped nimbly behind Anders's shield.

"Nobody behind us?" she asked breathlessly. She was disheveled and sported a few bruises and scrapes, but seemed otherwise unwounded.

"Not anymore," Varric said dryly. "Probably not many in front, either, after that."

"Aveline's down," Isabela said, still panting. "Wounded, but she'll live. Hawke's okay, I think – you heard him laugh, nothing can kill him when he gets into one of his _moods_." She smirked. "Where's Merrill?"

"Up there, still," Anders said, pointing. Varric glanced up – Merrill appeared briefly and waved to him. She looked exhausted and sweaty, but alive.

Groans of pain reached them out of the debris-choked air. More mad laughter followed, and slicing noises and cries of pain soon afterwards.

"Yep – he's fine," said Isabela unnecessarily. More slicing noises and clattering resounded.

"We need to be able to see what's going on," Varric said to Anders.

The mage touched the orb of his staff with one hand, and the beautiful crystal began to glow. Anders turned his palm outwards, past his shield and facing the battlefield. A soft wind began to blow, clearing the dust.

Aveline's silhouette became visible, lying on her back with her shield in a defensive position. Reaver was crouched next to her, panting and bleeding. Aveline waved weakly to the small group huddled behind the magical barrier; Varric waved back, glad she was okay.

The conjured wind gradually cleared the battlefield of airborne debris, revealing a scene of carnage. Tellingly, Hawke's kills were easily distinguishable from Aveline's and Isabela's. None of the raiders remained alive; several had been dismembered or eviscerated, many savaged by Mabari claws and teeth. A few were headless, and more than one cut entirely in half. Others had been neatly run through, or had their throats cleanly slit. Blood covered every surface: seeping into the sand, splattered on the rocks, soaking the clothes and armour and skin of the dead. Once, Varric would have been shocked and revolted by the grisly scene before him, but meeting Hawke had done a lot to harden his stomach.

Alone among Evets' Marauders, the blood mage Fell Orden still fought. His opponent was Michael Hawke. The mage was exhausted, his mana spent, hands and arms slashed with casting wounds. Orden's limbs trembled as he struggled to remain standing, fending off Hawke's raging blows with his staff. Hawke, too, was wearied, but Orden's demise was inevitable.

Briefly, Varric considered stepping in, but experience told him Hawke would only be annoyed that the dwarf had taken his kill.

A minor tremor shook the ground behind Varric, and he turned to see Merrill stepping from an elf-sized twist of gnarled roots. The magical wood sank back into the ground, and Merrill smiled brightly at Varric, back to her usual innocent self and utterly unaffected by the gruesome slaughterhouse the clearing had become.

Hawke let out a yell as he swung his greatsword in a mighty arc. Orden parried with his staff, but the strength of the blow shook his entire body and he cried out with the strain and pain. He staggered backwards, his face twisted with hate.

Hawke pressed his advantage, forcing Orden further back with slices and thrusts. Finally, grunting with impatience and exhaustion, Hawke spun his greatsword in a vast circle that would have beheaded anyone standing nearby. It impacted Orden's staff with a mighty crack, and the magical weapon fell to the ground in two pieces.

Orden was panting, staring up at the sneering warrior in fury. Hawke was nearly spent himself, but he raised his sword for the final blow. Before he could, however, Orden lashed out with his blood magic, dredging up one last, desperate attack.

Merrill gasped and Isabela exclaimed "Whoa!" as Hawke was flung backwards, slippery tendrils of blood magic groping his chest armour, his neck, and face.

Anders rushed forward, his shield collapsing as he charged through it. Varric grabbed for him – there was still a blood mage on the field, after all, and who was to say he couldn't scrounge up just a bit more of his deadly art? But Anders evaded Varric's grasp and ran to Hawke's side.

As it turned out, Varric needn't have worried about Fell Orden. Before Hawke had slid to a halt on his back on the far side of the clearing, Reaver had lunged at the mage, covering a distance of several meters in the blink of an eye. In an instant he was at Orden's throat and tearing it out. Drops of blood flew this way and that as the hound shook the tattered body back and forth.

Varric felt relief and exhaustion wash over him simultaneously. He hardly noticed the stress that filled him in battle, coiling nervous energy inside him like tension in Bianca's cords. The release of that tension, the knowledge that everyone was more-or-less safe, was a blessed balm on his frayed nerves. Happily, he folded Bianca into her dormant state and holstered her on his back to be cleaned later.

Hawke had shoved away Anders's help, ordering him curtly to see to Aveline. He stood under his own power, his neck and lower face gashed horrifically by Orden's magic. Seemingly unaware of his injuries and unaffected by pain, Hawke made his way to Reaver and went to his knees beside him.

"Nicely done, Reaver," Hawke said heartily. "Beautiful! Oooh, that was beautiful, that last bite!"

Reaver barked happily and wagged his tail, then licked Hawke's face, smearing him with blood and dog saliva. Merrill and Isabela made noises of disgust, but Hawke laughed like a child. Varric couldn't help smiling at the absurdity of the sight as he and the others made their way over to Hawke.

Hawke scratched his dog's head, rubbing blood deeper into the Mabari's coat. He glanced over at Anders and Aveline; the mage had worked his healing magic, and was helping Aveline to her feet. Though still bloody and battered, her wounds were gone. She thanked Anders sincerely, and he nodded, but Varric noticed that his eyes never strayed far from Hawke.

Hawke wasn't oblivious, either. Seeing that Aveline was fine, he called, "Anders!"

Anders jogged over to him at once, raising his staff.

"Heal my dog," Hawke said, indicating Reaver.

Anders stopped short and stared at him, mouth agape. Aveline, Varric, Isabela, and Merrill were just as surprised.

"What are you waiting for?" Hawke demanded when nobody moved.

"Hawke," Varric said. "You can't see your neck. That last bit of magic – aren't you in _pain_?"

"Hawke... Michael," Anders said hesitantly. "You really need-"

"Anders, _heal the dog_," Hawke growled, and Anders obeyed at once. Varric shook his head.

"The rest of you..." Hawke said, looking from Aveline to Varric, Merrill, and Isabela. "Excellent fight. I'm proud of you all. Especially you, Merrill."

Merrill beamed.

"Now go home." He gestured with his head for emphasis.

For the second time in as many minutes, Hawke's words were greeted with astonished expressions.

"...What?" Isabela said.

"Go _home_. Not you, Anders. You stay here. Heal anyone if they need it – you don't, Isabela, so don't waste his mana. Get some rest... I might want you again tomorrow if this thing with the qunari gets any worse, and the Viscount whines for my help again, which he very probably will."

Isabela and Varric exchanged glances.

"Going to do some sightseeing?" Isabela quipped.

"Absolutely," Anders said before Hawke could even open his mouth. "Hawke's been begging me to show him the sights. The Wounded Coast, you know. People flock from all over Thedas to see the wondrous variety in its landscape."

Isabela covered her laugh with a hand; Aveline continued to frown. The shadow of a smile crossed Hawke's mouth. Varric wondered if he'd imagined it.

"Hawke, are you sure?" Merrill asked, evidently concerned. "You look like you really need-"

"Go!" Hawke barked. Shock flitted across Merrill's face, but she shrugged; like Varric, she'd known Hawke long enough not to be truly surprised any more when he praised her magical skills one minute and demanded she leave the next.

"Alright – there's no need to shout. I had fun today, Hawke – thank you for including me. You know where to find me."

And with that, she skipped off down the path, still trailing a drop of blood here and there from her casting wounds. She paused only once, to pick a flower.

Reaver, meanwhile, was shivering with apparent delight as blue energy coursed along him, closing his wounds and resetting wrenched limbs. The blood dried into his coat remained, however. He would need a bath.

"Thanks," Hawke said as soon as Anders lifted his staff. The mage nodded, wiping his brow.

"Now go on, boy," Hawke said, still kneeling next to his dog. "Go and run a bit. Cool off. Find some small animals to kill and eat, and then come back to the mansion."

Reaver barked exuberantly, danced around Hawke in a circle, and took off with a blast of bloody sand under his paws.

Hawke climbed to his feet. He'd recovered his breath, and the wounds on his face had slowed in their bleeding, but his body was still tense and coiled like a spring. His eyes were still wide and dilated, darting from here to there in rapid bursts.

He seemed to notice Aveline, staring at him disapprovingly with her arms folded. She raised one eyebrow questioningly, indicating the barely-visible dog with her head.

"It satisfies his hunting instinct," Hawke explained.

"This wasn't enough?" Aveline was appalled.

"And it's cheaper than buying food for him. He eats quite a lot, you know."

Aveline rolled her eyes and turned away. "Thank you for your help, Hawke. Come by the Keep later – I'll make sure you're rewarded." She departed without another word.

Hawke barely acknowledged her. He was now staring at Anders with the same predatory look in his eyes he typically reserved for whatever he was about to hack apart with his sword.

"Hawke," Varric said. "Are you sure we should be leaving you two alone and wounded out in the wilderness where anyone can – I mean obviously you're not helpless, but you are exhausted..."

"Let it go, Varric," said Isabela, eyes gleaming. "It's not our business." She eyed Hawke, then Anders. "Though if you feel like making it my business... please, _please _do." She winked at Hawke, smiled at the mage, and sauntered away. Hawke watched her leave, startled.

Varric was getting definite vibes that he shouldn't remain the last one alone with Hawke and Anders much longer, but his concern for the mage – and for Hawke too, to a lesser extent (he was a vicious bastard, after all) – made him try one last time.

"Anders," he said quietly. "Is there something going on here?"

Hawke turned to him, and Varric very nearly backed away under the heat of his scowl. Anders spoke first.

"Go, Varric. I'd like to be alone with Michael, if you don't mind."

Varric looked at him.

"I appreciate your concern," Anders continued softly. "But you know I'd ask you for your help if I needed it. Or... wanted it."

Varric threw up his hands. He'd tried. "You know I'm going to have to make up all the details you won't tell me."

Anders laughed. "Varric, in this case even _you _could not possibly make up anything as wild as the truth."

Varric stared at him, baffled. He looked at Hawke.

"Thanks for your help, Varric," Hawke said. "Now please go away."

Hawke hardly ever said "please". Varric nodded once, and then he left at a run to catch up with Isabela.

**Ω**


	4. Crossroads

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Crossroads"**

"Fucking finally," Hawke growled, turning away from Varric's retreating back. He grabbed Anders by the head and kissed him, hard. Hawke wanted him, _now._ He couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to, and he didn't care. His cock was painfully hard inside his armour. Hawke grabbed Anders in a bear hug and forced his tongue into the mage's mouth, exploring as deeply as he could.

He could barely contain himself. The violence, the blood, the killing – it had driven him over the edge. He had fought with his mother in mind, at least at first. Initially, every strike against the raiders had been for Leandra, venting the rage he'd felt since her death. Very soon, however, he reverted back to his usual bloody combat fervour – every strike was for himself, for the eager, almost sexual thrill he felt whenever he killed, whenever he tasted or smelled blood, whenever he felt it hot on his skin. His bloodlust seemed to have intensified dramatically since Leandra had died last night. Had it really only been less than a day?

All of that intense desire, all his eagerness for violence intermingled with his pursuit of carnal pleasure, was now focused on Anders. Hawke couldn't really think clearly about it. All his reasoning from that morning – that this was a vile way to treat any sentient being, that Anders didn't deserve to be punished for the crimes of another mage – all of it seemed to melt like wax in the inferno of his desire. None of it compared to what _he, _Hawke, wanted for himself. He knew he was an awful person, he knew he was being terribly selfish, but he didn't care at all. Hawke rationalized that Anders would have objected last night, or at some point before now, if he had really wanted Hawke to stop. He hadn't left with the others or asked Varric for help. He hadn't called on Justice to defend himself with magic.

_He wants it as much as I do_, thought Hawke. _He does. He's mine. He wants me to own him in every sense of the word. He wants me to use his body for my own pleasure. And that's exactly what I'll do_.

Anders, for his part, couldn't possibly have fended Hawke off without using magic; physically, Hawke was more than a match for him. The blood-covered warrior's fierce advances reminded him strongly of the previous night, and reawakened all the feelings he had experienced then. Hawke's armour was pressing into him uncomfortably from various angles, but he didn't mind. It was Hawke's muscular energy behind the squeezing and so it was pleasure to Anders. Hawke radiated a powerful metallic odour of blood and sweat which ignited his own desires, and thankfully mostly eclipsed the reek of the dismembered corpses littering the clearing.

His desire to be taken and punished, however, was soon overpowered by his concern for Hawke. The wounds on his neck weren't life-threatening, but they were serious. Hawke's armoured hands had already unfastened Anders's robe, and were now crawling over his upper body. Driven by Hawke's rough exploration, the cold, sharp fingers of his gauntlets had broken Anders's skin in a number of places. If Hawke noticed, it only excited him further.

Hawke finally released Anders from the aggressive kiss to lick and graze at his ears. Anders took the opportunity to speak.

"Michael," he said, struggling a little to get his arms free.

"Shh," Hawke breathed in his ear, following the whisper with a probing tongue. Anders shivered with delight, but maintained his focus.

"Michael… let me heal you."

Hawke ignored him, one hand now working to unfasten the straps of his own armour.

"Please."

Hawke let out an angry, frustrated growl and backed off. Not knowing how long he would stay docile, Anders grabbed his staff and quickly summoned healing magic from his mental library of spells.

Hawke tilted his head back and closed his eyes, frowning and moving his head back and forth as the cool blue light touched his skin and knit his wounds. He looked uncomfortable. Even then, through that sullen expression, Anders was as awed by his beauty as he had been when they first met. Michael Hawke was a paradox – it seemed that the closer he was to death, or the closer he brought others to death, the more alive he himself became.

Anders couldn't help an inward sigh of relief as the magic died away, leaving Hawke's neck and lower face uninjured. Hawke opened his eyes and stared at Anders. His pupils were enormous. His eyes seemed feral, barely human.

Without warning he punched Anders hard in the gut, his armoured fist delivering an intensely painful blow as his other hand reached up and grabbed Anders by the hair. Hawke yanked his head back as he stepped in close, wrapping Anders in his metal embrace once more.

"_Don't_ do that again," he said in a low, dangerous voice, and grazed his teeth along Anders's neck.

Panting and dizzy from the blow, Anders allowed Hawke to support his weight while he recovered. Hawke sniffed and licked hungrily at his neck and shoulders, seemingly unconcerned.

"Don't do... what again?" Anders managed to ask, fighting down his nausea.

"Interrupt me."

Anders wouldn't, not again. He knew that Hawke really did care about him, somewhere, in his own savage way. That he had let Anders heal him at all spoke volumes. But the events of the last twenty-four hours had convinced Anders that his mother's murder had in fact broken something in Hawke. He had always been violent, but this crazed lust was unlike anything Anders had ever seen in his life. He couldn't be sure anymore if Hawke was capable of stopping himself if he went too far. If he stayed with Hawke – and what choice would Hawke give him, really? – he was putting his life in danger every moment they were alone.

_Would that be so bad? _a voice in Anders's mind whispered even as Hawke shoved him over and he fell onto his back hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The voice was Anders's own, or it was Justice's – or both.

In an instant, Hawke had the halves of his cuirass removed and was looming over Anders, tracing shallow cuts on his face with his gauntlets. His muscles gleamed with sweat in the late afternoon sun. The limited view Anders had of Hawke's impressive musculature, largely obscured by heavy plate, was marred by a number of jagged scars. To Anders, they only added to Hawke's majesty.

A thought rose unbidden in Anders's mind from the depths of his consciousness, where Justice cowered in shame at what he had become. He would be honoured to be killed by this man.

An idea that had occurred to him during Hawke's assault the previous night now surfaced again in his thoughts. The two of them, Anders and Justice, _were _technically an abomination. He'd killed countless templars since escaping from the Circle of Magi the last time. It was true that many of them had deserved it, because they routinely tortured and imprisoned mages out of a fanatical and utterly misguided sense of divine right. Others, however, had merely been following orders – commanded to track down a dangerous and powerful apostate, and having no choice but to obey their superiors. Anders and Justice had killed them just as dead as any others.

And there were other things he wasn't proud of. Collateral damage he or Justice had inflicted in combat. Inadvertently leading other mages to their deaths. Innocents caught in the crossfire between himself or other mages and templars. In the face of Hawke's accusations last night, and his insatiable lust right now, Anders's previously unshakeable resolve in his plight now seemed very weak indeed, especially when mages like Quentin and Fell Orden strode about, killing and terrorizing as they pleased – the results of no Chantry oversight.

"Michael," Anders murmured, feeling the need to tell Hawke what he was thinking. To explicitly give him permission, whereas before he had only implied or silently yielded.

Hawke lifted his face from Anders's body long enough to slide the mage dexterously out of his robe, leaving him lying naked and bruised in the blood-soaked sand. Hawke straightened, now working on the cuisses that protected his thighs, staring at Anders without blinking. Giving him permission to speak.

"You know I..." Anders wasn't sure how to put it. "You know I don't mind if you..."

Hawke's eyes narrowed. He bent down and silenced Anders with a fiery kiss, then paused. Their foreheads rested against each other, their eyes inches apart. Hawke continued to stare at him, and Anders felt a still-armoured finger stroking his chin. Hawke's scent filled his nostrils – mostly blood, but with an undercurrent of sweat and something else, something spicy that Anders couldn't identify.

"Do it," Anders finally gasped, tears of shame making him squint. "Do whatever you want to me. Anything you want. However you want. I... I deserve-"

"Shut up," Hawke snarled, and suddenly his eyes and his scent were gone and Anders's face was ringing from a metal-fisted backhand. His head spun and he groaned in pain, but he didn't fight back. He couldn't and wouldn't, and as long as it was Hawke doing this to him, he wouldn't ever again.

"Whiny bastard," Hawke muttered. "I know you deserve it. You deserve a lot more than that."

He's right, Anders thought.

Hawke ran his tongue and armoured fingers over Anders's body, exploring and tasting him. Anders shivered when cool metal caressed his left nipple, then slowly outlined his pectoral muscle. Hawke's other hand had moved lower, tracing his navel and combing through his public hair. The gauntleted fist enclosed his cock, and Anders made a faint noise at the mingled discomfort and excitement.

"Ahh," he said again when Hawke squeezed his hardening member. Hawke was sitting up now, straddling Anders's waist but with one hand behind him. He watched Anders with a curious look in his eyes. Anders couldn't have broken eye contact with that predatory gaze if he wanted to.

He felt a spike of metal – one of Hawke's fingers – move in a circle around his scrotum, and then a sudden bloom of pain. Hawke had pierced his skin, directly under his sac. Anders gasped, but his cock was only getting harder.

Hawke's hand moved back up to explore Anders's erection, and his curious look became a dark, knowing smile.

"I knew it," he said softly. "I knew it."

He reached up to his mouth and slowly licked the spot of blood from his gauntlet where he had broken the skin. Anders watched him, entranced, utterly at his mercy.

Hawke pushed himself to his feet and divested himself of the last of his armour. His greaves and gauntlets were tossed to the ground beside his sword and the various other pieces. He let out a groan of relief as the metal constraints on his cock were finally removed; his undershorts did little to conceal his substantial length, and he reached down to fondle himself through the thin fabric.

Hawke stretched, working out the tension in his muscles, and removed his undershirt to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the ocean breeze on his skin. Anders drank in the sight of him standing in the fading sunlight – muscular, scarred, and still covered in dried blood – and thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful. He was barely conscious of his hand drifting down to stroke himself.

Hawke looked down at Anders as he stepped out of his shorts, at last freeing his cock to spring eagerly upwards, a string of pearly fluid dangling from the tip. He straddled Anders again and forced his arms above his head, then leaned on his wrists, pinning them in position.

"Now," he said, his eyes once more growing dangerous, "suck it."

Hawke held Anders's wrists down with one hand; with his other he guided his cock to the mage's lips and thrust himself in. Anders had no choice but to accommodate the thick cock being forced down his throat. He breathed slowly through his nose, but he was fighting his gag reflex by the time Hawke had inserted his entire length, burying Anders's face in his pubic hair. He started to grind his hips back and forth, thrusting his cock in and out of Anders's throat. Anders, tears in his eyes, could only struggle to breathe.

Hawke grunted and gripped the back of Anders's head, pushing himself into his mouth with a slow but utterly implacable rhythm. He released Anders's wrists, grabbed one of his hands, and began to bend the mage's fingers back painfully.

"Come on," Hawke growled. "You can do better than that."

Anders's cries and moans of pain were muffled, but Hawke seemed to enjoy the sensation.

"Aha," he said softly. "So that's what I need to do to teach you how to suck cock properly."

Hawke grabbed the mage's hands and forced them upwards, stretching Anders's arms out above his head as far as he could and leaning over him. He began to fuck Anders's mouth in a faster, powerful rhythm, and he bent down to gently suck one of Ander's fingers. He kept it up for only moment before he bit down hard enough to draw blood.

Anders couldn't help his scream of pain. The combination of the sensation it produced on his cock and the taste of blood in his mouth drove Hawke wild.

"_Fuuuck_, yeah," he breathed. "That's it. That's it... scream for me." He bit down again on a different finger, his tongue eagerly licking at the blood that flowed, and Anders's cries and sobs of pain around the thick member in his mouth were ecstasy.

Hawke leaned back, still holding Anders's wrist and gnawing and sucking on his mangled fingers, and withdrew his cock from the mage's mouth. The glistening shaft was slick with saliva and pre-ejaculate. Hawke used his free hand to grasp his cock and slap Anders across the mouth with it several times. Anders gazed up at him, tears in his eyes, panting from the pain his hand.

"Lick it," Hawke murmured around the bloody fingers on his tongue. Anders obeyed, and Hawke closed his eyes in delight, rolling his hips back and forth to ride his cock along Anders's tongue.

An idea struck him, and he reached over to grab his gauntlets, still lying where he'd discarded them. He climbed to his feet and reversed the direction he was facing as he put on the metallic gloves. He knelt again, this time above Anders's head. Without needing to be asked, Anders took Hawke's member in his mouth again and worked it with his lips and tongue. His hands, free of restraint, crept around Hawke's body to tentatively caress his firm buttocks and lower back.

"Ohh... good boy," Hawke groaned appreciatively. "Good boy."

He leaned over Anders, supporting himself between the mage's legs with one gauntleted fist. With his other hand, he traced one finger along the sensitive joint where Anders's leg joined his pelvis. Anders groaned around Hawke's cock as the armoured claw on his gauntlet left a deep cut. Still thrusting himself deeply into Anders's throat, Hawke ran his tongue along the fresh wound. The bloody taste in his mouth, its smell mingling with Anders's sweat, was an exquisite euphoria.

Grinning darkly in anticipation, Hawke gathered more blood on his tongue and ran it slowly up Anders's stiff member. The mage tensed beneath him, his grip on Hawke's butt tensing.

Hawke took the head of Anders's cock between his teeth and, holding it so in place, ran a metal claw down the erect shaft, scoring another shallow cut. His tongue followed the narrow slice.

"Unnh!" Anders bucked beneath him, and his moan of mingled pleasure and pain was almost enough to push Hawke over the edge. His body tensed, and he lifted his head from Anders's cock long enough to run his tongue up the bleeding wound once more. He dug the claws of his gauntlets into Anders's thighs, piercing him in several more places.

The smell and taste of blood coupled with the moist, warm throat surrounding his cock was becoming too much for Hawke. He started to thrust faster, feeling his climax approach. Anders choked, not having expected Hawke's suddenly increased pace. He started to struggle, unable to breathe. Hawke didn't care.

He thrust himself into Ander's throat as deep as he could just as he felt his balls clench and waves of hot pleasure wash over him. Metal claws gouged Anders's thighs and knees harshly; Hawke turned his head back and forth, rubbing the blood all over his face. He let out a mad sort of giggle as he ejaculated heavily, enjoying the pulsations along the length of his cock and the convulsions in Anders's throat.

"Swallow it," Hawke moaned. "Fucking swallow it all. Yeah..."

He kept thrusting, shooting several thick wads of semen into the mage. The pleasure washing through him made his arms tremble as he supported his weight. His eyes were closed, bloody mouth hanging open as he rode the waves of rapture, hips still thrusting beyond his conscious control.

Eventually the ecstasy began to subside and his frantic fucking slowed.

"Suck it clean," Hawke breathed, barely able to keep himself from falling onto Anders. He dipped himself deep into the mage's mouth a few more times, relishing the heightened sensitivity in his spent cock as Anders followed his command. "Nnnnh... such a good little whore you are, Anders. So tight and hot, and obedient..."

At last he pulled himself all the way out and rolled to one side, sprawling in the sand in exhaustion. He was breathing heavily, eyes still closed, face still covered in Anders's blood. For his part, Anders was trembling, having been unable to breathe for a time while Hawke was emptying himself into him. His scratched, bloody erection was beginning to subside now that Hawke was no longer actively using him. Presently he began to shiver, chilled in the lengthening shadows of the nearby bluff.

Hawke drifted for a time in post-orgasmic bliss, not really thinking about anything but savouring and reliving his intense climax. Anders made no sound, and soon regained his breath. Some time later, his uninjured hand found Hawke's, and their fingers intertwined, flesh and metal.

At that moment, Hawke's eyes opened, and all at once his capacity for rational thought came flooding back. He realized where he was, what he'd just done, and to whom. A deep and unsettling hyper-awareness of his surroundings crept up on him. Hawke felt every clump of bloody sand beneath his naked body. The stench of thoroughly ripped apart human bodies invaded his nostrils. Seabirds screamed high above him. The sun had disappeared behind the bluff, and the salty breeze from the ocean that had been so soothing and freeing not long ago now felt cold and accusatory. Mental torment welled up around him in such an inescapable maelstrom that for nearly a minute he was utterly unable even to breathe.

He'd done it again.

Dozing himself, but perhaps sensing what Hawke was thinking, Anders squeezed his hand in a silent gesture of reassurance and solidarity, but it only made Hawke feel worse. There was no real contact between them – he only felt the slight pressure on his gauntlet.

He covered his eyes with his other hand.

"Michael," Anders murmured. When Hawke didn't answer, Anders stirred beside him.

Hawke was squinting beneath his gauntlet, trying to suppress tears. He would not cry in front of Anders. He could not, _would _not ask for or accept comfort from the man he had so hideously mistreated. The mage's sympathy was touching in a heartbreaking way, but somewhere inside him it also repelled Hawke that Anders could even look at him with anything other than hatred after what he'd done.

"Michael... talk to me. Please."

Hawke breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down, trying to regain control. It wasn't working. He felt a sob welling up in his chest, but he fought it with every ounce of willpower he could muster.

"Michael!"

"_What?_" Hawke burst out. His head was near Anders's knees; he couldn't see the mage's face. It felt like his voice was coming to him on the breeze from the ocean, with the cries of the birds from the sky, with the uncomfortable grind of sand from the earth.

"Don't be upset," Anders whispered. "I told you I..."

"You what?" Hawke snarled. "You _deserve _it? You're wrong, Anders. _You_ aren't the one who deserves to be raped and mutilated and beaten like a disobedient animal."

Anders said nothing for a few moments.

"Neither are you," he said, so quietly that Hawke barely heard him.

Hawke squeezed his eyes shut, tears of bitter shame forced from his eyelids and trailing down his face to join the blood in the sand.

"This... this isn't right," he muttered.

"Then what _is_ right?"

"You have to... leave. You have to get away from me, as soon as you can."

"What?" Anders sounded genuinely shocked.

"Anders," Hawke gasped, no longer able to contain his emotions. "There's something _wrong _with me, can't you see that? When I get like that... I have no control over myself at all! I might _kill _you and I _wouldn't even care!_"

Anders didn't reply; the same thing had likely already occurred to him, and there was certainly nothing to disprove the idea.

"Please, don't let me," Hawke cried. "Run. Run away right now, while I know who I am. Go somewhere I won't ever be able to find you."

"I can't do that."

"You must!" Hawke yelled, his sudden vehemence startling them both. "You cannot stay with me. I command you to leave!"

"I disobey you," Anders said calmly.

Hawke roared his frustration and rolled away. Their linked hands separated. Hawke struggled to his feet and wandered a short distance away, around the bluff to where the sun still shone. He sat down heavily with his legs dangling over the cliff and stared out at the brilliant setting sun for a while. He felt utterly drained, empty of everything vital. There were no thoughts in his head except for the beauty of the natural vista in front of him, and it was simpler that way. Calmer.

Time passed. The sun drifted downwards further, staining the cloudy horizon pink, purple, and red. Higher in the sky was already darkening to the blue-black of night, but no stars were yet visible. Hawke leaned against the bluff and shielded his eyes from the glory with his gauntlet; presently, he became aware that Anders was sitting next to him.

"I'm sorry I cut you," Hawke muttered.

"Look," Anders said, holding up his hand, freshly uninjured and merely stained with dry blood. "Healed. I have a bit of a knack for healing, you know."

"I'm not kidding, Anders. You have to go. This can't continue. I _won't_ kill you and get off on it." His eyes drifted closed and he shook his head, as if to convince himself.

"Michael," Anders said. "Your... bloodlust... hasn't always been this intense, has it?"

Hawke's eyes opened.

"No," he said.

"What changed? And when?"

Hawke thought about it. Fighting and violence had always excited him. He'd always felt a little thrill when he killed, when his sword parted flesh, or when he was splattered with the blood of his victims. Until last night, however, his enjoyment of violence had never been overtly sexual. He had never felt any desire to fuck people as he killed them, or kill people as he fucked them. He'd enjoyed being dominant and rough with the men he'd been intimate with in the past, but never to this degree.

What had happened to him?

"I've always liked killing," Hawke said, remembering that Anders was still waiting for answer. "And rough sex. But never... at the same time. Last night, when you came to the mansion – that was the first time I ever..."

"Mixed the two," Anders said softly.

"Yes."

Anders looked pensive, his jaw working silently, eyes on the sunset. Hawke eyed him askance.

"What are you thinking?"

Anders looked at him sideways and didn't immediately answer. Hawke thought he saw a flicker of Fade blue in his eyes, but it might have been an optical phenomenon, a reflection of the ocean or sky.

"Blood magic," Anders said.

Hawke's mouth opened, then closed. He turned the idea over in his mind.

"You think..." Was there such magic? He wondered how to phrase it. "You think somebody... _did _something to me?"

Anders still looked darkly thoughtful. "I'm wondering if it's even possible. Fell Orden... but no, you fought him today, and last night had already happened."

"Quentin," Hawke spat.

"Maybe. It certainly makes the most sense, since your... altered behaviour first manifested soon after we encountered him. Who else have we fought who's used blood magic on you?"

Hawke cast his mind back. He'd fought many blood mages since his arrival in Kirkwall, and even once in Lothering. Surely, though, if some magic _had _been used on him that long ago to make him this way, it would have manifested before now.

"Gascard DuPuis," he said. "Tarohne... Idunna... Decimus. Several others, but none I left alive long enough to talk to."

"Okay," Anders said. "Here's what I want you to do. Think back, think hard, about the battles you had with Gascard, Tarohne, and Decimus. Idunna... is less important – I was there and I saw what she did to you, and I don't think she had the time to do anything more complicated than take control of your body. But just in case, think about her too. Write down everything you can remember about those battles – the magic they used, how it affected you, how you or I or whoever else was with you countered it. Then give it to me."

Hawke looked at him, hardly daring to hope that these new, depraved depths of bloodlust he'd found in himself were the result of some external factor, and not some latent insanity of his own that his mother's death had dislodged.

"Meanwhile, I'm going to do some research," Anders said. "See if something like this is even possible, and if so, why someone might want to do it to you. I'm also going to write to some friends of mine, trustworthy people, who have experience fighting blood magic – more than I do."

"I can think of a reason someone might do it to me," Hawke said darkly.

"What?"

Hawke looked away. "To punish you," he said.

Anders was silent.

"Or, you know, to make me into a ruined, empty shell, because whoever I fall in love with will die having sex with me," Hawke went on, with sarcastic blitheness. "I do have rather a lot of enemies."

Anders's head moved a little at the word _love, _but Hawke didn't notice, still looking elsewhere.

Anders reached out and wrapped his hand around Hawke's gauntlet. Carefully, he pulled it off and set it aside. He gestured for his other arm, and Hawke obliged. The other gauntlet was removed. Both of them now sat naked in the sand, connected by their hands.

"We'll fix this, Michael," he said with quiet, calm, reassurance. There was something else in his voice, too – a hint of resonance, of distant power. Hawke looked at him and saw flickers of blue in his eyes, curling just under his skin, waiting to be called on.

"If this – change – is something that has been done to you," Anders said, "that is an injustice I cannot tolerate." His voice reverberated on some strange internal plane – Hawke felt the mage's words in his chest.

"Nor will I allow my man to lose himself in his own bloodlust," Anders said, his voice snapping back to normal, utterly human.

Hawke shook his head and buried his face in his hands.

"I am yours, Michael Hawke," Anders said. "But you are also mine."

**Ω**


	5. Restless

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Restless"**

"Messere?"

Hawke looked up blearily. His single candle was sputtering, burned down to a stub and casting uneven shadows over the scribbled notes that littered the writing desk. His hands were stained with ink and, in a few places, his own blood, where he'd clenched his fists in frustration hard enough to injure himself with his fingernails.

Bodahn was standing nearby, holding a lantern and watching him with apparent concern. The meager light of Hawke's candle barely illuminated his dwarven manservant's nightclothes; his face and lantern hovered in the gloom like a spirit.

"Is... everything alright?" Bodahn asked.

"Bodahn," Hawke said hoarsely. He rubbed his forehead. "Unnh... what time is it?"

"Well after third bell, messere. I really think you ought to get some rest... what are you working on that is so urgent?"

Hawke looked down at his notes. He'd covered several pages with what he remembered about the battles he'd fought with blood mages, particularly Tarohne and Gascard DuPuis. One problem was that the more he wrote, the more he remembered, some of it with such vivid, haunting clarity that he felt sure it must be important, somehow. Why would the sensations of a blood mage's spell, excruciating and debilitating as they were, be so ingrained into the memories of his muscles and flesh, if not because they were altering his body in some alien, irreversible way? Or did his flawless recollection arise from the fact that he was already familiar with a form of blood magic – the strength he drew from pain, using his own infinitesimal spark of power? Hawke knew that his particular talents, accentuating his natural bloodlust as they did, were far from commonplace.

In any case, he had no way to know what was important and what wasn't, so he wrote down everything.

The other problem, of course, was that reliving the battles made him itch to go out and _look _for blood mages – or anyone, really – just to fight again, to feel the glorious thrill of his blade rending flesh, to get a taste of the battle fervour he had lately found himself yearning for more than ever.

"It's..." Hawke rubbed his eyes. How to explain what he was trying to do? "It's a long and complicated story. Don't worry about it. If you're really curious, I'll tell you some other time…"

"Of course, messere. Will you be going to bed soon?"

There was more he needed to write down. So many things had come to mind that Hawke had alternated between describing his fight with Tarohne and his fight with Gascard, regurgitating information as it came to him with no real order behind it. Some things he hadn't yet recorded, and he would probably have to rewrite it all afterwards to make it legible and coherent. And he hadn't even started thinking about Decimus, let alone Quentin.

Bodahn's concern was touching, but in a way, it also irritated him, because this was important. He enjoyed killing people too much to think of ever giving it up, but Hawke had no desire to murder his lover in a fit of bloodlust. He was tempted to tell Bodahn to mind his own business and go back to bed, and let the master of the house do as he pleased.

But if he was honest with himself, Bodahn's questions were annoying because they weren't being asked by his mother. Since he was a child, Leandra had always been the one who had encouraged him when he doubted, held him up when he fell, and comforted him when he despaired. Leandra was the one who would tirelessly search the darkness, _his _darkness, with a lantern, until she found him and put him to bed.

Later, as he grew older, Hawke had taken on more and more responsibility for protecting and caring for his family. He enjoyed the role, because he felt needed and loved and important. Malcolm Hawke had been a capable man, but his apostasy meant there were always certain places he couldn't go, certain things he couldn't get, or certain tasks he couldn't complete. At those times, his elder son would step in, for the sake of his family.

His younger siblings, too, had depended on him. Carver, though he could be snide and resentful at times, was his friend as well as his brother. Hawke still fondly reminisced about sparring with his younger brother in the fields outside Lothering, teaching him swordplay and practicing his own skills. He had never been prouder the first time he had fought his brother, holding nothing back, and Carver had disarmed him anyway.

And Bethany – she had needed to be kept hidden from templars as much as Malcolm did, but her youth and inexperience made her much more vulnerable. Hawke had found almost as much enjoyment in whisking her away from inquisitive templars as he did in beating up village boys who though they were good enough for her. Bethany frequently objected to his acts of "protection," which rarely ended without some kind of violence on his part. Yet a wry sense of humour had always lurked just beneath her veneer of indignation. Though inexperienced, Bethany came fully into her powers at a young age, and Malcolm's expert tutelage ensured that she really was entirely capable of defending herself. Still, she had allowed her older brother to scare away her suitors – the ones he knew about, anyway – because she knew he enjoyed doing it.

Bethany was gone now, dead of the taint in the Deep Roads. Carver, his exuberant youth snuffed out far too young, had never made it out of Ferelden. Neither had Malcolm. And now his mother had joined them, leaving him behind in this increasingly grey, bleak world.

He was alone.

"Yes," he said eventually. "Soon, Bodahn. Thank you."

Bodahn nodded. "Would you like me to bring you anything? Tea, water, wine?"

"Hmm..." Hawke mused. "A glass of wine would be nice. I'll take it in my room. Something... something red, and dark. Warmed before the fire first, if you please."

To his credit, Bodahn barely blinked at the unusual request. "I will see to it, messere." His eyes went to the nearly spent candle. "Shall I leave the light? I can find my way back."

"No, that's fine."

Bodahn bowed and departed. The glow of his lantern receded with him, and the gloom advanced once more. Hawke rested his forehead in his hands and stared down at his mess of notes. Though the pressure on him had sometimes become unbearable, first in Lothering and then in Kirkwall, Leandra's solid, comforting presence had never wavered, never vanished from his side or his mind. He felt aimless and lost without her. He knew it was childish to still feel such dependence on his mother at his age, but Leandra would never have allowed him to shut her out of his life. When he thought about it, Hawke could see much of his own fire in her.

He supposed he wasn't really _utterly_ _alone_. He had his dog, after all. Varric was a good friend, and Isabela had his back. Aveline was dependable, even if she sometimes (most of the time, really) thought he was a terrible person... and it wasn't like she was wrong. He felt reasonably confident that Merrill and Fenris would back him up, even though they both sometimes annoyed him, Merrill with her blithe unconcern about spirits and blood magic and Fenris with his zealous hatred of magic. The two of them really had more in common than they thought.

And maybe his family wasn't totally gone. He might be the last Hawke, but he had that fire inside him still – Leandra's fire. He had his father's strength, Carver's strong arm, and Bethany's... well, the memory of her love.

And there was Anders...

Hawke shoved himself to his feet, eyes stinging with tiredness, as his struggling, dying light source finally went completely out. He was surprised that it had lasted this long. There was more he really needed to write down, but it could wait until tomorrow.

Looking forward to his glass of wine and sleep, Hawke made his way to his bedroom in complete darkness. Bodahn wasn't the only one who could find his way without any illumination, at least for a time.

**ασυνέχεια**

Anders sat alone in his clinic, for once without any patients to tend to. His eyes scanned the missive he'd received, rereading it over and over. His rage, buried these last few days under the sudden intense weight of Hawke's lust and battle fervour, had reawakened as strong as ever. His own shame brought on by Hawke's accusations had evaporated in the heat of his righteous fury. Justice was partly to blame, but Anders knew that he, even without the spirit, would never have tolerated this. Not what he was reading. Nobody, no sane, rational, thinking being, human or otherwise, would stand for this.

Surely this, of all things, would convince Hawke that his cause was just.

Anders had made his way through the city and was halfway across Hightown, heading for Hawke's estate, when the thought crossed his racing mind that this was not the best time to ask his lover for help tracking down a lunatic templar.

His strong, confident stride paused.

Hawke had quite a bit on his mind right now. His mother's death and the possibility of his own corruption at the hands of an as-yet-unknown blood mage, among other things. His lust for combat and bloodshed. Escalating tensions between the qunari and Chantry. His conflicting desires to simultaneously keep Anders from harm and punish him in a violent, sexual manner that, if the mage was honest with himself, he found strangely, intensely exciting.

Anders shook himself and kept walking. He told himself it would do Hawke good to think about something else for a while. Maybe he was being selfish, but he really did need Hawke's help, and what better opportunity than this would he get to convince his lover that the templars were out of control? And this task would likely involve killing at least a few people, so it would sate his bloodlust for a time.

What Anders wouldn't admit even to himself was the strong possibility that such combat would only inflame Hawke's desires beyond his conscious control again, and he would turn his insatiable sexual appetite on Anders just like he had at the coast a few days ago. Even as Anders pretended not to have had the idea, the thought of it sent a thrill of anticipation along his spine, and his cock stirred beneath his robes.

**ασυνέχεια**

Bodahn let him in with his usual cheerful greeting and informed Anders that the master of the house could be found in one of the empty bedrooms upstairs. Anders followed the dwarf's directions, stopping to give Reaver a pat on the way, to stay in the dog's good graces if for no other reason. Wistfully, he thought of Ser Pounce-a-lot.

Anders found Hawke stripped to his smallclothes and practicing his swordplay, swinging and maneuvering his massive greatsword in a lethal whirlwind around him. He'd clearly been at it for a while, as the sheen of sweat glimmering on his muscular form attested.

Anders thought it would be better not to interrupt – for his own safety, for Hawke's concentration, and for the sheer pleasure of watching the capable warrior's deadly grace. In actual combat, Hawke's movements rarely seemed so calculated as these. He tended more towards savagery than grace when fighting living opponents. Hawke in his battle frenzy was far from reckless, however, for he relied on the instincts he honed so carefully in quiet, focused environments like this one.

Too soon for Anders's appreciative eye, Hawke's momentum carried him around and he spotted the mage standing at the door. He slowed, allowing the flat of the heavy blade to come to a rest on his shoulder.

"Anders," Hawke said. Breathing hard, he wiped his forehead and started towards the doorway.

"Michael. That was... a pleasure to watch," Anders commented.

"Actually doing it is even better." Hawke stopped in front of him, bent down to pick up his sword's sheath, and carefully slid the blade home. He leaned it against the wall; once both his hands were free, Hawke grabbed Anders by his head and kissed him fiercely.

Anders responded unconsciously, his own hands moving around Hawke's sweat-slick back to caress the warrior's tense shoulders. Hawke's kiss was fiery and his probing tongue aggressive, but controlled. Despite himself, Anders felt a twinge of disappointment when Hawke pulled away to look into his eyes.

"I..." Anders had to take a moment to catch his breath. "I need to talk to you."

"Have you learned something?" Hawke asked as he shouldered his way past Anders and headed for his bedroom.

Anders was momentarily confused, but then he realized what Hawke was talking about. "Unfortunately not... I've sent my letters, but they're going to Ferelden and Nevarra – no way to estimate when I'll get a response. I've started some research of my own... made a few discreet enquiries, tapped some old resources... but nothing yet. I'll keep working, though, and I promise I'll let you know immediately if I discover anything."

Anders followed Hawke to his bedroom and leaned against the doorframe as the sweaty warrior picked up a linen towel and started to dry himself with it. Anders watched, enthralled.

"Well, what then?" Hawke asked after a moment, and Anders forced himself to remember why he was here. The righteous rage he'd arrived in had all but disappeared.

"I've received word from some of my contacts in the mage underground. There's a templar named Ser Alrik who's been abusing the Rite of Tranquility. Using it to silence any mage who disagrees with the templars, publicly or otherwise." Some of his anger returned, and his voice grew heated. "I've been watching the Gallows, and there are more new Tranquil every day. Good mages, people who I know for a fact passed their Harrowing."

His face darkened as he remembered his own narrow escape from the deranged templar. "Ser Alrik doesn't care about protecting mages or anyone else. He's worse than Meredith – however misguided she may be, she believes she's helping people. Alrik's a _sadist_. I've had a run-in with him myself. The bastard enjoys causing pain, making mages Tranquil so they'll be compliant and ..."

His voice trailed off as Hawke turned to look at him, dropping his towel. Anders realized what he was saying. His mouth opened, and then closed.

"So... what?" Hawke prompted before Anders could say anything else, to the mage's relief. "He sounds like a lunatic. Yes, he should probably be killed. That doesn't mean all templars are sadistic tyrants." He went to his wardrobe.

"No," Anders agreed. "But my contact says that Alrik has a plan to make Tranquil_ every_ mage, in _every_ Circle. All the mages – from the children to the First Enchanter. He calls in the 'Tranquil Solution.'"

As he was talking, Hawke stepped out of his sweat-damp shorts and recovered a fresh pair from his pile of folded clothes. Anders's eyes were immediately drawn downwards, but he kept his voice steady. The man's sheer irresistibility was a little unsettling.

Hawke turned around. His face was twisted. "That's insane," he argued. "The Grand Cleric would never allow that, let alone the Divine. Not even Meredith would authorize such a plan."

"That may well be," Anders said. "But I have it on good authority that Ser Alrik intends to carry it out, with or without the Divine's permission."

Hawke slipped on some trousers, and Anders watched him fasten the laces. He found himself hoping that Hawke wouldn't put a shirt on. His lust had been on a slow burn for several minutes now, stewing beneath his rage at Ser Alrik that now seemed rather superficial. Damn it, but why did Michael Hawke have to be so... so unbearably sexy?

"So this Ser Alrik's planning on Tranquilizing the entire Circle of Kirkwall," Hawke said, folding his arms. He made no move to reach for a shirt, and Anders inwardly rejoiced. He tried not to be too obvious about where his eyes were wandering.

"Not just Kirkwall," Anders corrected. "Every mage in Thedas."

Hawke rolled his eyes. "Of course. And you have all this on 'good authority.'"

Anders winced at the sarcasm in Hawke's voice, but he nodded. "My information is valid. I wouldn't have come to you with this if I wasn't absolutely sure."

"As long as you're _absolutely sure_. Shit – Alrik might even find a few people demented enough to help him do it. But never the Grand Cleric, never the Knight-Commander – despite what you may think of her – and never the Divine, or anyone, really, who has the resources to see it actually done. Andraste's flaming tits, man, other templars would kill him _themselves_ before he got too far."

Anders had no argument to any of that. Hawke wasn't done.

"But you, of course – you don't trust the templars not to put their armour on front-to-back," Hawke continued. "You and Justice need to fix everything yourselves. And so you're going to go after Alrik yourself... and you want my help doing it. That about right?"

Anders felt his face burn. Hawke read him so easily. He wondered if Hawke was aware of the effect he had on the mage – irrational with lust, just from watching him swing his sword around in his smallclothes, a moment of nudity, and now him standing there, arms folded across his bare chest as he picked apart Anders's arguments and made them sound like petty complaining. Very probably, the answer was yes. Hawke knew exactly what he was doing.

Briefly, an utterly insane idea crossed Anders's mind: attack Hawke, provoke him, get him worked up and bloodlusty and unable to stop himself from taking Anders, roughly, right then and there. It seemed like the more dangerous Hawke became, the more attracted to him Anders was. What was wrong with him? Why did he desire to be punished so strongly?

It was just Hawke, really, Anders thought. Pain had always turned him on, a little bit – never this much. He'd never become so aroused just from the _thought _of Hawke beating him as he fucked him. Of course, the fact that it had happened already made it rather easy to imagine.

Hawke was rude, arrogant, and snarky. He tended to favour templars over mages and made no secret of it. The fact that he was gorgeous and apparently knew it didn't really help, either. But despite all of that, Anders had loved him from the moment they first met. If an unlikelier match existed, he had a hard time imagining it. He was Hawke's man... and Hawke was his.

And what Hawke wanted – what he'd expressed in his despair on the sandy cliffs – was to be cured of the strange affliction that intensified his bloodlust into murderous carnal desire. However much Anders desired and enjoyed Hawke's brutal treatment, Hawke wanted to tone it down. Anders would respect that, and do everything in his power to make it happen.

After all, there was nothing to stop Hawke from slapping and cutting him during sex afterwards, entirely of his own volition. He'd do it if Anders asked him to, probably. And in the meantime...

Hawke was staring at him, one eyebrow creeping up, and Anders realized he hadn't answered the warrior's question.

"Yes," he said, having to repeat the word when his voice caught in his throat. "Yes, I would like your help... if you're okay to go for a minor adventure. I know a secret passage into the Gallows – all I really need to find is evidence of what Ser Alrik's planning, something I can show to the Grand Cleric. We might not even have to confront him. But... the tunnels I know of are frequently used by lyrium smugglers. So in all probability there _will_ be fighting."

Hawke's eyes lit up, and Anders contained his smile.

"Alright," Hawke said. "Yes. I'll help you."

"Are you sure?" Anders said, not really expecting Hawke to refuse at this point. "I know you have a lot on your mind right now."

"I need a break from thinking about... other things. A good fight always clears my head," Hawke said. "But I..."

Suddenly, he looked unsure. Anders straightened a little, watching Hawke closely.

"I want you to help me stay _me_," Hawke said quietly, not making eye contact. "If I can fight without losing control, then... then that's progress. I don't want to turn into a raving blood-crazed sexual predator every time some moron attacks me in the street – and Maker knows it happens often enough. Can I count on your help? Can I count on you to control _yourself?_"

Anders knew exactly what he was asking, and he felt curiously little shame as the lie passed his lips. "Yes, of course. I'll do everything I can, Michael. I'm here for you." That last bit wasn't a lie, at least. He just didn't add that he was there for himself just as much.

Hawke suddenly snorted and started laughing.

"What?" Anders asked, baffled.

"The Tranquil Solution. All of Thedas, right?" Hawke chuckled. "Even the Tevinter Imperium? _That _would go over well." He laughed again, lightly. Anders watched him, not really seeing the humour, but glad just to see Michael Hawke smiling in a non-threatening, non-mocking, non-blood-crazed way. It lit up his whole face, made him into an almost entirely different person. For a moment, just a moment, Anders realized that what he was planning was, in some ways, just as bad as whatever had been done to Hawke in the first place. Then the moment passed.

**Ω**


	6. Judgement

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Judgement"**

"_Varric_!"

For the second time that week, Hawke's sudden appearance in the Hanged Man and shouted demand for the dwarf made him jump and spill his drink on himself. He cursed fluently. Why couldn't Hawke be a _normal _human who spoke in a _normal _voice and took a few days off after his mother was murdered by a blood mage? There he stood, just as scowly and intimidating as ever, decked out in his heavy plate and greatsword, ready to go adventuring. Didn't he ever get tired of wandering around in dank caves and sewers killing people and random monsters and looting their stuff?

No, Varric answered himself. Of course not. He wouldn't be Hawke otherwise.

And again, Anders was with him. Not distracted and uninterested this time, though – in fact, he looked alert, and positively eager. There were restorative potions clipped to his belt, ready to use. His staff crystal was freshly shined. And he bore no visible bruises or chew marks.

Interesting.

"Hawke," Varric said calmly, maintaining his dignity even as his chest hair was sopping wet with ale. "You need me again?"

"Yes. You have other plans?"

Varric glanced left and right, trying to think of a plausible affirmative answer. Technically, he was supposed to be in a Guild meeting right now, but he hadn't gone to one in four years and Hawke knew that. He had intended to check up on Merrill rather soon, followed by a few of his other contacts. But Hawke would just tell him to do that later.

He supposed there was no harm in asking what they were doing. It didn't _always _involve templars, blood magic, or Hawke getting ragey in combat and carving people into chunks of pulpy matter.

"What's the situation?" he asked casually, taking a sip of the reduced volume of drink still in his tankard.

"Going after some lunatic fringe templar who wants to use the Rite of Tranquility on _every single mage_," Hawke said, in a tone that suggested he was discussing weeding his garden. "Looking for evidence, slicing him up if we meet him... the usual."

Anders looked a little annoyed at Hawke's summary of their intent, but he added nothing else.

Varric suppressed a sigh. So much for _that _not being on the table. He eyed Hawke, then glanced suggestively at Anders. "And you two are quite sure you wouldn't like to... go it alone?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

Hawke snorted; Anders looked a little discomfited.

"No," said the mage. "We're likely to meet lyrium smugglers in the tunnels. Dwarves among others. You and Bianca would be a great help."

Of course. Well, there _was _good coin in it for him, getting rid of lyrium smugglers.

Varric looked hard at Anders. He decided to throw tact and subtlety to the winds. "And afterwards," he drawled, "once Hawke's been cutting up smugglers and probably templars and whatnot and has worked himself into a bloodthirsty horny dementia, are you two going to want to have creepy blood sex right there? And I'll have to leave right as it's getting really awkward? _Again_?"

Anders looked increasingly shocked as Varric went on, and on his final, emphatic word the mage actually winced, having the grace to look slightly ashamed of himself. Varric noted that he didn't seem to want to say no, apparently opting for embarrassed silence.

Hawke, though, seemed to be in barely-controlled danger of cracking a genuine smile – and that put Varric at ease more than anything else might have. Anders did look fine, really... Hawke hadn't killed him or mutilated him beyond recognition after he'd left them on the cliffs.

At least, Varric's vivid, overactive imagination whispered to him, not beyond the scope of healing magic, and not anywhere visible. With effort, he silenced his internal voice.

"Fine!" the dwarf said, throwing up his arms as both Hawke and Anders continued to not answer his question. He stood up and made sure Bianca was strapped securely to his back. "Lead the way, Fearless Leader and Possessed Mage Boytoy. Let's go before I change my mind."

"I am _not_ a-" Anders began vehemently.

"Shut up," Hawke said, and Anders fell silent. Varric laughed merrily until well outside the tavern. Finally, Anders threatened to hit him with his staff, and the dwarf desisted. He still couldn't prevent a slight giggle every now and then.

**ασυνέχεια**

In Darktown, Anders indicated with a gesture where they were headed. They stopped at a patch of dirty flooring indistinguishable from much of the rest of Darktown. The reek of chokedamp was perhaps a little stronger here, but there was little else to indicate that this location was unusual in any way.

Except, Varric noted with a dry lack of surprise, the faded, almost invisible rune scratched into a nearby wall.

Anders knelt down and brushed away some dust and mold. A metal ring became visible; the mage tugged on it, revealing a trapdoor.

"Don't tell anyone about this entrance to the Gallows," he said. "It's saved the lives of-"

"Too late for that, Blondie," Varric said, deciding it was best to let him know.

Anders looked at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I've told..." Varric paused, rubbing his chin. "I think at least three people since you've come to Kirkwall."

"What!" Anders was baffled. "You can't be serious."

"You think you're the only one who knows about the labyrinths in the walls?" Varric said. "The Merchant's Guild has known about this route for decades. The templars, probably longer – they're a prime demographic for the smugglers, after all." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "As if they've never thought to monitor it for rebel mage activity."

Anders raised his eyebrow and nodded. "That's true," he said. "I suppose I should have realized. I've come across lyrium smugglers in here before, but they leave me alone if I stay out of sight and out of their way. The tunnels have been here for a long time... others are bound to have found them over time."

"Lyrium smuggling is still a crime," Hawke said darkly. "Templars get what they need from the Chantry. Anything more than that is just for the addicts, and they're no help to anybody. If we see any, they die." He kicked the door the rest of the way open and started to descend.

"Agreed," said Varric. "The Merchants Guild hates them just as much. Less lyrium smugglers on my watch means more brownie points for me – maybe enough to make them forget about the last few meetings I've missed..."

"What about the several hundred meetings you missed _before _the last few?" Anders asked archly as he followed Hawke down the ladder into the tunnels. "That way," he added as Hawke apparently expressed ignorance as to which direction they were heading.

"I send people," Varric said evasively. "Cousins and friends of the family, you know... people I trust..."

"People you make up, you mean," Hawke's voice echoed from below.

"Shhh!"

Varric dropped to his feet next to Anders off the rickety ladder into the dark, musty tunnel. There was barely enough dusty light from cracks in the ceiling and the occasional cleft in the rock wall. Hawke had already prowled off into the gloom, his sword ready in his hands. Anders followed him, a sparkle of energy making his staff crystal glow faintly.

Varric took up the rear, habitually checking behind them every few dozen steps. Hawke seemed to be in a better mood than he'd been in for days – an improvement over yesterday, to be sure. It was always a good sign when he participated in the snide banter between Varric and Anders rather than glaring or snarling at them to be quiet. The dwarf was glad that Hawke seemed to be coping relatively well with his mother's death.

He wondered what Anders was up to. The mage seemed a little edgier down here in the dark, his gaze darting left and right, his fist clenched tightly on his staff. There was no sign of Justice emerging to wreak havoc – yet.

"Blondie," Varric whispered, so as not to attract any undue attention that might be lurking in the shadows. "Can you give me a bit more background on what we're actually doing here? Lunatic fringe templar and such – intending to make Tranquil the entire Circle?"

Anders proceeded to explain what he knew about Ser Alrik in a hushed voice as they crept through the tunnels. Varric listened carefully, watching Anders when he could. The mage was careful never to let Hawke get out of sight; sometimes, when the tunnel curved tightly through rock, Anders was practically breathing down Hawke's neck. Other times the only sign of the warrior's presence was the faint light from Anders's staff glinting off his armour.

**ασυνέχεια**

Hawke scanned the darkness ahead, his eyes wide to catch a glimpse of where the next patch of light might be. They were the likeliest places for an ambush.

Whenever he could, he also glanced back at Anders and Varric. Mostly at Anders. Hawke was tense, his muscles coiled, ready to leap into combat at the slightest provocation. His breathing was carefully controlled; he was alert and hyperaware of his surroundings, sensitive to the slightest noise, change in the scent environment, or puff of displaced air. He was also intimately aware of Anders, particularly when the mage was right behind him. He could hear Anders breathing, his fingers rasping on the carved wood of his staff. He could feel the mage's eyes slipping down his back.

Hawke couldn't help wanting to turn around and return the scrutiny. Unbidden, a vivid recollection of what Anders looked like naked sprang to his mind. Naked, yes, and writhing beneath him as he took what he wanted... naked, submissive, and... bleeding...

Hawke clenched his teeth, trying to control himself, but his body was reacting against his will. He cock was hardening in his armour... how much fun would it be to pounce on the mage right now, tear his robes off-

With a supreme effort, Hawke forced himself to focus again on his surroundings. His control had been impeccable up until now; he would maintain his own mind. He would _not _become a maddened animal again.

They came to a sudden right angle in the tunnel's path, followed shortly thereafter by a second in the opposite direction, and then a third and fourth, mirror images of the first two, so that they were once more aligned with their original heading. Between the two middle turns of the box-like shape was an intersection; a cramped, unlit tunnel heading downwards into dusty shadows, echoing with hints of far-off voices.

The strange and seemingly arbitrary diversion from the path's direction made Hawke curious. He remembered what Varric and Anders had been saying earlier about "labyrinths in the walls." Kirkwall was riddled with secret passages, quite a few of which Hawke knew about – the one that led into the cellar of his estate, for instance. He'd sealed that one the moment he moved in to prevent anyone taking him by surprise, accidentally or otherwise. He wondered if there were other concealed routes into his mansion.

This made Hawke think of something else curious he'd come across more than once since arriving in Kirkwall.

"Varric," he whispered.

"What?"

"You were talking about labyrinths earlier..."

"Yes – Kirkwall is literally a series of mazes built on top of and inside each other. Utterly insane way to build a city, if you ask me, but the ancient Tevinters weren't dwarves."

"Have you ever heard of the Band of Three?" Hawke asked.

Varric was silent for a moment. Then his voice drifted forward from the near-total darkness behind Hawke.

"Band of Three... hmmm. It rings a bell."

"It sounds familiar to me too," Anders said. "Where have I seen that?"

"Do you remember those notes I showed you?" Hawke said quietly, eyes still searching the darkness ahead. The tunnel widened up ahead into a large chamber, with what looked like wooden scaffolds and stairways built around its edges. It was bathed in thin, watery light from an unknown source. His alertness cracked up a few notches.

"Notes," Anders mused, still in a barely-audible whisper. "I think so... yes. The Enigma of Kirkwall. Something about-"

"Passages," Varric interrupted. "Yes, I remember now too. Streets shaped into glyphs... channels carved beneath the streets for the flow of sacrificial blood..."

"What are you thinking, Hawke?" Anders asked, his voice taking on a decidedly different tone. Curious, fascinated, and a little fearful.

"Blood magic," Hawke whispered back, slowing as he neared the illuminated chamber. "Demons contacting mages... even ordinary men in the lowest levels. The Veil is thin here."

Out of nowhere, a bright blue flash erupted in the clearing ahead, blinding and staggering Hawke, Varric, and Anders.

"Lyrium bomb!" Varric's shout was barely discernable through the ringing in Hawke's ears and head. He couldn't see at all. "Ambush–"

Hawke blinked furiously and swung his sword blindly in front of him. He felt a lusty thrill as it connected solidly with flesh, producing a macabre gurgle. Then the air was filled with clangs and shouts, and the world became chaotic.

Hawke's vision cleared in time to see several armed dwarves charging at him, stepping over the body of the one he'd neatly decapitated. From the flashes of light, banging noises, and repetitive _twang _of Bianca coming from behind him, he surmised that Anders and Varric were dealing with their own assailants. But how was that possible? The only intersection had been at the right-angled box diversion quite a ways back–

Hawke discarded the irrelevant thought and charged to meet his attackers. He roared with glee as he impaled a dwarf through the mouth; the dwarf's momentum carried him through almost two feet of greatsword before he slid to a bloody halt. Hawke wrenched his blade, opening the dwarf's head in a gruesome spray and freeing it to slice into the next. A thrown dagger flashed past his head, and another was barely deflected in time by one of Anders's energy shields. Hawke hardly noticed, focused on stabbing and slicing at the dwarves clustered around him, each dodging and ducking his swings, trying to slip under his guard.

A second blast of explosives or magic – Hawke wasn't sure which – flared behind Hawke, knocking him forward. He narrowly avoided catching his neck on an ambusher's dagger; fortunately for him, however, the dwarves were also knocked off their feet. Hawke recovered before they did and ended all their lives with swift, brutal efficiency.

More were appearing from the shadows around him, however, so he had no time to check on Anders or Varric. He spotted a few archers limned in the watery light on scaffolding above him and dove for the relative cover underneath one of the wooden platforms. With his back to a wall, it was relatively easy to defend himself from the ten or more dwarves and humans surrounding him.

He caught a glimpse of Anders and Varric crouching on a green sigil flashing on the ground; Varric was dispatching several melee attackers who had crossed the glyph and become ensnared by its paralyzing magic. Anders was swinging his staff to launch projectiles of ice and frost at the archers. They were holding their own for now.

Hawke roared a challenge, eager for blood. The lyrium smugglers surrounding him obliged, swarming him and stabbing frantically at whatever part of him they could reach. This would prove an interesting challenge – the humans had an advantage of reach over their dwarven comrades, but the stout dwarves could more easily slip under Hawke's weaving, slicing blade. His armour had already stopped a number of clumsy thrusts and stabs in their tracks; once the smugglers learned that he was vulnerable only in specific areas – like his face – they would change their tactics. Until then, the advantage was his.

Hawke had no intention of letting it get that far. His heart was pounding, his lust for bloodshed already overpowering his reason. The sooner this was over, the better.

The moment he saw an opportunity, he charged forward, heaving his sword in a great arc as he did. His blade swept a dwarf's head completely off, fatally wounded another across the face, and lodged in a human's armour. Hawke bowled the injured human over, yanking his sword free and crushing the man's face beneath his armoured boot. By the time the other attackers had recovered from their surprise at his sudden move, Hawke had turned around and was carving into them.

"Hawke dodge!" he heard Anders's voice over the din of battle, and he dropped low under another thrust sword, hoping he was dodging in the right direction. Two arrows whistled over him where his head had been moments before. Hawke snarled and stood back up, using his momentum to launch himself forward and knocking two men over. He stabbed down twice, killing both in an instant.

Hawke felt a powerful kick to the back of his left knee, forcing him back down. He spun as he fell, trying to turn to face his attackers; he barely managed to raise his greatsword in time to protect his face. Three dwarves and a human remained alive in his vicinity.

Hawke grunted with the effort of swinging his sword, forcing the marauding blades back and giving him space to roll forward and get to his feet. The four attackers hung back cautiously, the slick pools of blood around them and the rising stench of death attesting to the danger Hawke represented.

Panting, quickly checking behind him to make sure he wasn't about to be ambushed again, Hawke scanned the battlefield. Anders and Varric were okay – nobody could threaten them at close range due to Anders's persistent paralyzing glyph. Varric appeared to be exchanging fire with the archers on top of the scaffolding Hawke was fighting under. Anders was leaning over and panting, apparently catching his breath but uninjured.

Heart racing, Hawke sidestepped a dagger thrown by one of the dwarves and shot forward, slicing down savagely and cutting the thrower open from neck to navel.

Three were left, and all were backing away fearfully; they were clearly wondering if it was too late to flee with their lives. Hawke grinned wickedly and licked his lips as he advanced.

The human was suddenly engulfed in flames that had ignited magically from nowhere. He screamed and ran in a random direction, flailing in his anguish and finally tripping and falling to lie in a still, burning heap.

"Nice one, Blondie," Hawke heard Varric mutter.

The two remaining dwarves glanced at each other as Varric and Anders approached, having dispatched the archers. The two attackers were the last ones alive of their entire band.

"We, uh... we surrender," said one in an anxious, if gravelly, voice. He lowered his sword and dagger hopefully, unsure if his petition would be accepted.

"Oh, so _now _you want to talk," Varric said wryly. "Couldn't have tried that a little earlier, huh? Might have saved you some trouble. How many you got, Hawke?"

"Several," Hawke said, not taking his eyes off the dwarves. "I lost count after the first few heads came off and the fountains of blood and body parts obscured some of my view."

Both dwarves were pale, one noticeably trembling.

"Please don't kill us," he said weakly. "We didn't know who you were."

"I _still_ don't," his comrade muttered.

"We never would have attacked you if we knew," the other continued, his voice tinged with desperation. "If we knew you... uh..."

"Would reave your asses to the Void and back?" Anders said helpfully.

"Yeah, that."

"How long are we going to stand here and talk?" Hawke demanded. "Can I kill them already or not? Anders?"

Anders looked at him, confused, then started as he realized what Hawke meant. He rounded on the dwarves.

"You're lyrium smugglers," he said.

"Yes," said one of the dwarves. The other tried to silence him, to no avail. "You _really _think they'll believe we're postboys running messages for the Knight-Commander?"

"Is that your cover story?" Varric asked incredulously. "That's beyond pathetic. Since when has the Knight-Commander used dwarven postboys to run messages for her?"

"Shut up," Hawke said. Varric smiled and shrugged.

"Do you know a templar named Alrik who uses these tunnels?" Anders asked the dwarves.

One of them scratched his head. "Is that the crazy one?" he asked.

Anders rolled his eyes. "What _kind_ of crazy?"

"_Scary_ crazy," said the dwarf, shuddering. "Eyes like ice..."

"Sounds like him," Anders said, his face grim.

"Whenever he asks you to do something," the dwarf went on, clearly glad to have useful information, "it's like he's threatening perverse sexualized punishment if you disobey. 'You _know _what happens to mages who don't do what they're told,'" he mocked in a high-pitched drone.

"That's _definitely _Ser Alrik," Anders said.

Hawke looked at him with an eyebrow raised at the same time Varric said "Perverse _sexualized_ punishment? How lunatic are we talking here, Blondie?"

"I feel bad for those Tranquil," the dwarf whispered fearfully. "I think he... makes them do things. The way he looks at them... the normal mages are all terrified of him – some of the other templars, too, even!"

Anders looked angry. His hands were moving along his staff, and Hawke caught a flicker of Fade blue crackling behind his eyes. Justice was near the surface.

"Does he keep anything down here?" Varric asked, noticing that Anders wasn't saying anything. "Documents? Lyrium? Anything?"

The dwarves looked at each other.

"I have no idea," said the one who'd described Alrik. "They never tell _us_ anything really important. I've seen the templar here a few times dealing with the boss..." His eyes flicked to one of the eviscerated dwarven corpses cooling on the ground. "I don't know if he has any chambers down here or anything. I thought he stayed up in the Gallows with the rest of the templars, and only came down here to get lyrium. One of his men is supposed to meet us this time. Up ahead."

"Speaking of your lyrium," Varric said, "where is it?"

"In containers on top of these platforms," said the other dwarf, indicating the scaffolds. "We got word from back that way-" he indicated the direction Hawke, Varric, and Anders had come "-that you guys were coming, and to set up an ambush. Never got a chance to carry the cargo any further."

"You were heading towards the Gallows," Anders asked, and the dwarf nodded.

Varric sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Can't just leave lyrium lying around down here... even refined lyrium. I'll deal with it. Got contacts that'd be all too happy to get some black market lyrium back into the legitimate system."

"Thanks, Varric," Anders said. His eyes were on Hawke, who was fingering his blade hilt and staring hard at the dwarves. "The less the templars get, the better."

The dwarves exchanged glances again. "You're taking our haul," said one. "Does that mean-"

Anders nodded to Hawke, and the warrior lunged forward with a yell, swinging his sword mightily. He decapitated both dwarves in a single blow before they even knew what was going on. The corpses fountained blood and fell backwards in a comically identical fashion.

"So there's a templar up ahead," Varric said immediately, hoping to use a tangible datum to forestall any loss of control on Hawke's part. "And this Alrik you're looking for might even be with him. What exactly are you hoping to find, Blondie?"

"Evidence," said Anders darkly, and there was a hint of resonance in his voice. Justice was agitated. "Anything that confirms his Tranquil Solution is more than just a dark rumour. If we find Alrik himself we can interrogate him, and if it's true, he dies."

Varric glanced between Anders and Hawke, wondering if he would have to start watching the mage for signs of uncontrolled battle fervour as well. But Hawke seemed to be calming down; he was carefully avoiding looking at Anders, instead eying the shadows and walls around them and methodically cleaning his sword with a rag he'd produced from some recess in his armour. Good signs, all.

"I'll have to come back with some men for the lyrium," Varric said, looking up at the containers on the scaffolding. "I only hope it's still here when I get back."

"Hopefully it won't have sprouted anything," Anders added.

"_Sprouted _anything?" Varric asked as Hawke began to move onward into the shadowed tunnel at the opposite end of the chamber. He and Anders followed. "What are you talking about?"

"Lyrium in its raw form is dangerous enough just sitting out in the open," Anders said. "Refined lyrium does... strange things when left on its own for a while. It can affect the local environment... thin the Veil... cause any number of strange anomalies or distortions. Not a good situation."

"Why has nobody ever mentioned this to me?" Varric said, annoyed.

"It's hardly ever a serious problem, as far as I know," Anders said. "But this is Kirkwall. I wouldn't take any chances."

**ασυνέχεια**

They advanced for perhaps another three quarters of an hour, meeting nobody and encountering only one other intersection, identical in shape to the last and roughly the same distance from the large chamber. Hawke was silent throughout, speaking only twice to warn Varric and Anders of obstacles in their path.

When he saw light filling another large chamber up ahead, Hawke raised his hand and halted, indicating the other two should do the same.

"Extinguish your staff," Hawke hissed, and Anders did so. The three of them stood in near-total darkness; only the patch of light up ahead broke the silent void around them.

"Look," Hawke whispered. Varric and Anders strained their eyes to see what the warrior had seen.

"Movement," Varric said under his breath.

"Yes," Anders agreed just as quietly. "It looks like-"

"The templar the dwarf told us about," Hawke finished for him. "Varric – can you scout ahead, see if he's alone, without letting him know you're there?"

"Yes," Varric said. "Probably."

"Do it, then. Signal us to come forward if you think it's a good idea; otherwise come back."

Varric edged around Hawke and crept forward. He quickly disappeared into the darkness; some time later, a small silhouette appeared against the distant light.

Hawke watched carefully; the dwarf was far enough away that if he looked away for even a moment, he might miss the signal. His steady gaze never wavered, even when he felt Anders's hand slip into his own. He felt no contact through his gauntlets, but he felt the movement and pressure.

"Anders," he warned softly.

"I just want to be near you," the mage replied. "Surely that's not going to set you off."

Hawke wanted to make a sneering comeback, but he was doing so well. His self-control was steely, unflappable. This was good practice on not giving in to temptation. He allowed the mage to squeeze his hand as he continued to watch the light ahead.

He couldn't deny the comfort he felt, either. He did care about Anders – he wanted to be near him just as much. It was soothing to think of things in that light, rather than the dark thoughts he tended towards when considering the problem of his bloodlust.

Presently the silhouette raised a hand, the signal for Hawke and Anders to advance. They did so as silently as they could, hands falling apart. Varric's silhouette shifted as the dwarf retreated to meet them a little closer than where he'd been.

"He's alone in that chamber," Varric reported when they were within whispering distance. "But there's some kind of commotion going on past him... All I could see was a rock face, but I think there are stairs leading up to a higher level, and the tunnel continues from there. I heard shouts and some other noises, but I couldn't make out what was going on."

"Good work, Varric." Hawke eyed the templar, more visible now that he was closer, as he considered. "Can you and Bianca take him out from here?"

"Sure," said Varric; only the slight pause before his answer gave away his surprise at Hawke's relatively bloodless suggestion. "I might need a bit of light to aim by, though."

"Anders, help him," Hawke commanded as Varric deployed his crossbow. A faint whisper of light bloomed, producing a gleam on Hawke's armour and on Bianca's polished mechanism.

The templar stirred, likely noticing the light. He had time to take one step towards them before Bianca sang and a bolt sped away into the gloom. Barely a moment later, the templar collapsed, writhing, a brief spray of red right at the base of his helmet darkening his breastplate.

"Nice shot," Hawke complimented.

"Thank you," Varric said modestly.

"Now let's go." Hawke moved forward rapidly, not running but taking no trouble to remain quiet either. Varric and Anders followed.

The templar was still twitching a little when they reached the chamber. The commotion Varric had spoken of was now clearly audible; Hawke caught sight of movement on top of the rock face and marched on past the dying knight to the stairs.

"Please, don't hurt me, messere!" a woman's voice begged. "I haven't done anything wrong!"

"You lie," said a cold, inflectionless voice. "You know what happens to mages who lie."

Anders's eyes widened.

"That'll be him," Varric muttered. "Wonderful." He glanced at the mage. Anger was darkening his face, and his eyes were lost in blue light. Both of them scrambled to catch up to Hawke, readying his weapon at the top of the stairs.

A bald templar in elaborate heavy plate was standing over a cowering girl. Several other templars surrounded her, all helmeted. A few more stood farther back; their hands went to their weapons as soon as they saw Hawke.

"I only wanted to see my mum," the girl sobbed. "Nobody told her where I went. Please... don't make me Tranquil!"

"It's too late, girl," Ser Alrik said, perverse excitement creeping into his voice. "You will learn to behave yourself once you are Tranquil. Anything I command... you shall do."

Hawke was seeing red. "You need to shut the fuck up and die," he growled loudly. The warrior rarely agreed with Anders about the so-called abuses templars inflicted on their charges, but something in Alrik's voice as he spoke to the terrified mage had shattered all his carefully built control. Fury flooded through him, entwined with a deep, primal hunger for bloodshed. As it was washed away in a tide of battle fervour, the rational part of Hawke's mind wondered if it was because he saw something of himself in the sadistic templar, and was afraid.

Ser Alrik turned around as his men drew their weapons. "What is this?"

"We couldn't have tried diplomacy, huh?" Varric said, raising Bianca into attack position. Anders was spinning his staff with a look of murderous hatred on his face. Blue energy crackled about him.

"You will never touch another mage!" Justice thundered. Alrik's eyes widened in surprised anger. As he reached for his weapon, Hawke swung his greatsword with a furious bellow.

Battle erupted around them, but those first few awful moments felt like an eternity to Varric. He watched in what felt like slow motion as Hawke's blade took off the top of Alrik's head. He could have counted the bits of brain matter and shards of bone in the spray of gore that resulted. The image nauseated him instantly, and though years of working with Hawke had taught Varric to keep his stomach under control until the battle was over, the memory of that horrific blow would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.

In that same moment, a screaming blast of spirit magic from Justice collided with Alrik's breastplate. The seizing carcass burst into azure flames; whatever other horrid desecration awaited the templar's body, Varric never saw. He fired at the nearest templar, aiming for the eye slit in his helmet.

Hawke tore into the templars, his blade clanging harshly against their armour hard enough to dent it and, in a few cases, rupture it completely. Though the heavy plate protected the templars from his strikes, Hawke's battle rage was such that the sheer force behind his swings staggered them back and broke more than a few ribs.

Justice was spinning Anders's staff, managing to avoid hitting Varric with it only barely. Blue fire swirled out from him in a helix, arcing around Hawke to melt a templar's armour, and the screaming man inside, into slag.

Hawke was a spinning maverick of death, lashing out with his fists and feet as well as his blade. The templars were in disarray, unprepared for the sudden death of their leader and the ferocity of his assault. Varric had now had time to load a second bolt, and he took aim at one of the templar archers hanging farther back in the tunnel. There were three, but none had fired yet; Hawke was moving too quickly to present a target, and the churning of armoured men prevented a clear shot at Varric or Anders.

Varric saw a brief opening that lasted a bare instant; he took it. His bolt slipped between Hawke's back and a templar's falling sword to nail the middle templar archer to the rock face behind him by his neck.

As Hawke continued to maul the templars, a few of them became aware of the additional threat posed by Varric and the possessed mage. Blue fire cast by Justice washed over one of them, but it cleared away; the knight was protected by an invisible, ellipsoid shield. He raised his hand and white magic flashed from it; Justice staggered, hand clutched to his abdomen in pain. The magical aura surrounding him flickered and dimmed.

The templar advanced, holding his hand out to maintain his annulment magic; two others guarded him on either side. An idea that might save his life and that of the mage raced through Varric's mind; he reached for his belt, found a hard sphere, and yanked it with a silent prayer on his lips. He threw as hard as he could, and the potion bottle shattered against the breastplate of the templar on the left. The _clink _of breaking glass was barely audible over the din of Hawke's battle with the templars a scant meter beyond, but the hiss of spewing vapour was unmistakable, as was the dense black cloud of oily smoke that erupted from nowhere. The three advancing templars paused, startled at their sudden loss of vision and beginning to cough as the acrid fumes were drawn into their lungs. The white flare of annulment magic died away.

"Anders!" Varric shouted, taking the opportunity to scramble along the edge of the rock face to a safer distance. "Or Justice, whatever you are! Get away from them while you can!"

The spirit didn't respond, but Varric glanced back and saw him lurching away, using the time Varric had bought.

Hawke had also been obscured by the smoke, but the battle cry that erupted from the cloud could belong to no one else. "YYYAAAAAA!" Hawke yelled, his form evolving from a dark shape in the vapour to land a powerful blow against one of the confused templar's shoulders. Sparks flew where his blade scraped against the templar's heavy plate; the holy knight went to his knees, keening in pain. His sword arm hung like a limp rag, his other hand moving up to try to comfort his injured shoulder uselessly through his armour.

Hawke's foot impacted the back of the templar's head, forcing him down onto his face with a _clang. _Hawke spun, somehow maintaining his balance with one foot on the templar's helmet, and his greatsword impacted with another loud _clang _into the nearby templar who had annulled Justice's magic. He managed to aim the blow well enough to wedge his blade into the gap between the templar's breastplate and helmet, as the spurt of blood and pained, gurgling cry attested.

At a safe distance, Varric quickly loaded several more bolts into Bianca and scanned for a target. The templars Hawke had been fighting appeared to be dead or still searching through the dispersing cloud of smoke. There was one more templar who had been moving in on Justice; he had gotten his bearings and was now fending off Hawke's enraged hacking with his shield, severely dented and scratched.

"Hawke!" came the resonant boom of Justice's voice. He had regrouped himself near the stairs, safe from any templar's attempt at annulment for the moment. "Move!"

Hawke ignored the spirit's call, pressing his attack against the retreating templar. He was lost in his own bloodlust, likely only barely aware of the possessed mage's presence at his back. Varric looked for a shot, but there was too much risk of hitting Hawke.

Justice let out a frustrated growl that reminded Varric chillingly of the noises he'd heard made by shades. The mage raised his staff; energy swirled along it, coming to a sharp, brilliant point at its tip. The templar suddenly seized, his arms out straight at his sides, sword and shield dropping to the ground. Bright light burst from within his armour. The man's scream was long and tortured as he was lifted into the air, blinding light radiating from him. Hawke was forced backwards, cursing, his arm up to protect his face. Varric, before he could shield his own eyes, noticed that Hawke's face was badly burned.

The templar exploded in a shower of sparks and metal slag; thankfully for Varric's stomach, the matter of his flesh and blood seemed to have been incinerated in the blast. Hawke was thrown onto his back; Varric, farther away, staggered backwards and only narrowly managed to remain upright. A few other templars stumbling out of the smoke were not so lucky – the light burned holes right through them, and they collapsed in death one by one.

The magical explosion also cleared the remainder of the smoke. Varric edged sideways to get a better view; the templars Hawke had been fighting were indeed all dead, lying in bloody piles around the chamber. The two archers were still alive, however. Varric fired once, twice; both fell in silence, bolts suddenly sprouting from their eyes. He turned to see how Hawke was doing.

The warrior was gone. Varric looked around, surprised, and heard a _smack _at the same time he saw that Hawke had already shot to his feet, charged over to Justice, and backhanded him across the face. The burns on his face were not as severe as Varric had initially thought, but they looked painful.

"You fucking idiot!" Hawke roared. "Get control of yourself!"

To Varric's amazement, the mage, eyes and skin crackling with the spirit's power, recovered from the blow rapidly and shoved Hawke back, a burst of magic amplifying the force of his punch. "See to your _own_ self control, fool!" he shouted right back, and marched past the stunned warrior.

Varric watched, mouth agape, as the spirit mage stalked over to the other side of the chamber, brushing aside the remnants of the smoke cloud. He wondered at first what Justice was doing, and then realized with a start of fright that one templar was still alive. He'd been hiding in the shadows at the edge of the chamber, advancing on the mage girl, still cowering at the far rock wall. When he saw Justice striding towards him, the templar raised two daggers and darted forward, preparing to strike.

Before he'd advanced three steps, Justice swung his staff, alive with blue fire. It impacted the templar's helmet with a thunderous _crack _and a flash of blue light. The templar was dead instantly, his body thrown several meters to land with a sliding thud in the dirt.

"_I will have every templar for these abuses!_" Justice boomed. His voice resounded throughout the chamber, having entirely overpowered Anders's softer, higher tones. Dust rustled from the ceiling and Varric felt the thrum of the spirit's words in his chest.

Hawke walked up beside the dwarf and they exchanged glances. Hawke still looked enraged – he was breathing heavily and his pupils were dilated and predatory, but he was still.

"Justice," Hawke said, wiping his mouth on the back of his gauntlet. "Get a grip. They're dead."

"_Every one of them _will feel Justice's burn!" the spirit shouted, looking at him with contempt. He swung his staff in a circle, its azure rage tracing a line in the air and very nearly striking the terrified mage.

"Get away from me, demon!" she cried, hiding her face behind her trembling hands.

Hawke's eyebrows shot up.

"Oooh, boy," Varric muttered. "That'll go over well."

"I am no _demon_!" Justice said furiously, looming over the girl. "Are you one of them, that you would label me such?"

Hawke moved forward.

"Please, messere," the girl sobbed, trying her best to shrink herself further away from Justice, but she was pressed against the stone. "Don't hurt me."

"Anders," Hawke said loudly. "Come back. The templars are dead."

"_I feel their hold over her," _Justice seethed. He raised his staff, the blue fire whirling back to life along its length as if preparing to kill the mage. Varric felt his heartbeat quicken with fear. Surely the spirit would not turn against the girl whose torment had spurred his bloody crusade in the first place?

"_I WILL have my vengeance._"

Varric covered his eyes with his hand.

"Justice!" Hawke bellowed. He grabbed the possessed mage's hand and yanked him backwards, but Justice fought him off. "We just saved this girl from being made Tranquil! _She _is the one we were fighting for!"

The spirit mage stood poised with his staff about to plunge downwards. The girl was sobbing, still trying to push herself away, but there was nowhere for her to go. Then the staff fell, blue fire converged on the screaming girl, and her blood darkened the surrounding stone. Her shrieks of pain and terror ebbed with the thrashing of her limbs, and she was still.

Justice's fire died. His staff clattered to the ground, the azure rage of the Fade diffusing into a faint tremor of power and then nothing. Anders doubled over, clutching his head and stumbling backwards.

Anders's eyes appeared between his clenched fingers, wide with horror.

"No!" he gasped. "Maker, _no_!"

"Varric," Hawke said in a voice of deadly calm, "give us some time alone, please."

Varric was far from sure that that was the best thing for him to do right now, but there was no arguing with Hawke when he had that tone in his voice. It was too late to help the girl. The templars were dead and their Tranquil Solution likely dead with them, at least. He had done all he could.

"Don't kill him, Hawke," Varric said quietly. "Please."

Hawke didn't answer, still glaring down at the weeping mage.

Varric collected a few salvageable bolts for Bianca from the dead templars, and with a final glance at Hawke and Anders, left the chamber. He had no idea what was about to happen, or if he would see both of them alive again, but he knew that his part in this particular chapter of their tragedy was done.

**Ω**


	7. Delirium

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

_**Author's note:**__ This chapter is one of my least favourite things I've ever written because of how violent and gross it is. I honestly don't know what madness was going through my head when I wrote it. I'm leaving it in here for the sake of completion, but feel free to skip it if you want. There's nothing plot-critical._

_**Summary:**__ Hawke mutilates and punish-fucks Anders. He's losing more of himself to whatever is wrong with him. Anders suffers no permanent injury, but is wracked by shame and guilt at what he and Justice have become. Hawke retains his sanity at the end of this chapter, but his remorse at what he's just done is diminished by his awareness that Anders deliberately lured him into a provocative situation._

"**Delirium"**

Anders's thoughts were frozen with horror and revulsion. The image of the girl's terrified face as he loomed over her was cemented in his mind. The sound of his staff blade knifing into her, the gush of her blood, the last choking, gurgling sound she had made, paralyzed with pain and terror... He would never have a peaceful night's rest again in his life. And he didn't deserve one.

He was an abomination. He was everything the Chantry and the templars said he was. He was the reason mages were feared and the reason they were locked up.

The underground chamber was dense with the cloying smell of blood and fresh corpses. Illuminated only by light streaming through a cleft in the ceiling, its edges were thick with shadows. Crouched in this darkness against the rock face with his face in his hands, lost in his own private Void, Anders had nearly forgotten that he wasn't alone. He was brought back to the world, sharply and painfully, by a cold, merciless grip on his neck.

Hawke stared at him with his familiar predatory hunger as he lifted the mage helplessly by the neck into a standing position. Anders had seen Hawke's wide-eyed, feral glare many times before, and recently several times directed at him, but never directed at him with this intensity.

He distantly remembered, as if from another life, his reckless idea of luring Hawke into combat to awaken his thirst for blood, make him eager for more violent sex. The plan now seemed poorly thought out and idiotic in the extreme. Provoking Hawke was the _last_ thing he wanted to do right now. And now, of course, it was far too late.

"Michael," Anders said with difficulty, barely able to get the word out. He tried to prise Hawke's grip off his neck, but Hawke's fury was implacable; it was like trying to lever open a bronto's jaws. Anders felt the first flickers of genuine terror. He wondered if he'd finally pushed Hawke too far.

Fortunately for him, once Anders was upright against the wall, Hawke's grip loosened enough to allow him to breathe, at least. Still, Hawke said nothing.

"Michael... calm down," Anders said carefully. "You don't want... You don't want to do this. Remember what you said, on the cliff? You felt bad afterwards..." His words sounded pathetic even to him. His desire to be punished felt stronger and more justified than ever, but not for a way that might bring him any pleasure. And the kind of pain he knew Hawke would inflict on him only made him quake with terror.

"You _knew,_" Hawke growled, breathing harshly, eyes never leaving Anders's. The mage felt his heart clench with fear. "You _knew _I would get like this after... this. You wanted it. You _want _me to punish you. And you _deserve _it, you _filthy_... _piece_... _of_... _shit._" He squeezed.

"Michael!" Anders gasped, choking on the words. "Remember how you asked me to leave you, because you didn't want to lose control and hurt me more than you meant to? How you didn't want to kill me and get off on it?"

With his free hand, Hawke grabbed one of Anders's wrists and dislodged the mage's feeble grip from his gauntlet. He leaned in close and ran his tongue along Anders's jaw up to his ear. His teeth grazed the mage's earlobe.

"Don't need to kill you to get off," he whispered. "Just need to make you bleed a lot."

Anders screamed as his hand erupted with a fiery bloom of agony. Hawke had drawn his small dagger, a weapon of last resort, and stabbed him through the palm with it.

Anders barely had time to register the foreign object embedded in his flesh before Hawke followed up with a savage punch to the jaw. Anders was left stunned, his head ringing from the blow. For a time he knew little other than pain.

During that time, he was pliant in Hawke's hands. Hawke wrestled the mage out of his robes and then threw him naked to the ground. Anders moaned in pain, cradling his jaw with his uninjured hand. Hawke slid his foot under Anders and rolled him over, then put an armoured foot down hard on the mage's back to keep him in place while he took off his armour. He was getting good at undoing all the various straps and catches in record time, though he left his gauntlets and boots on. He also retained his undershirt and shorts, though he fully intended to remove them later. His cock was hardening as he considered what he would do. Part of him was eager to get started, but a colder, darker part of him was in control now.

Hawke rolled Anders back over and stared down at him, fondling himself through the fabric of his shorts. The mage was crying silently, likely as much from the shame of what he'd done as from the pain in his hand. He was breathing in sharp, heavy gasps, trying not to sob as he examined his injured hand. His other hand carefully touched the embedded dagger; a faint aura of blue healing magic began to dance among his fingers.

Hawke kicked the healing hand away and knelt down with his knees on either side of Anders. He leaned over the mage and stared into his eyes.

"You brought me here to fight a corrupt templar," Hawke said softly. His eyes were still wide, pupils inhumanly dilated. What terrified Anders more than anything, however, was that Hawke seemed to be in complete control of himself. He wasn't voraciously tearing into the mage, sexually or otherwise – yet. He was utterly calm, breathing slowly but deeply, cool and collected. This kind of behaviour, bloodthirsty but rational, was entirely new for Hawke, as far as Anders knew. He had no idea whatsoever what Hawke was capable of in this state, and it filled him with fear.

"So I killed him... and most of the others," Hawke went on conversationally. "Varric helped a bit and so did Justice – fancy that! You didn't, though. _You_ lost control."

As he spoke, one of Hawke's hands drifted out towards where his dagger impaled Anders's palm.

"You contributed nothing but mindless hatred to that battle, Anders. I know the feeling... I tend to feel a lot of mindless rage during fights, for no real reason. It's just the way I am. But I don't let it entirely govern my actions. Rage is my _power_ – it's the force behind my sword. Never once in my life have I turned my blade on an ally in combat out of sheer bloodlust. As blood-crazed as I get, I still remember how to tell my friends from my enemies."

Anders closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head in shame. Tears fell from his eyes down the sides of his face. Hawke leaned down to brush his face against the mage; his beard scratched Anders's cheek, and though it was uncomfortable, the affectionate gesture was oddly soothing for Anders.

"Of course there were those last few times," Hawke whispered in Anders's ear. His tongue flicked out to probe the mage's ear. "Complete loss of control. But those times my dick was involved in the decision-making process too, and you know how we men can get."

His other hand reached down to run cold metal claws along Anders's flaccid member. The mage shivered and whimpered softly.

"You were lucky, really. I might have fatally injured you before I came. But... ohhh... what a climax that would have been."

The lustful moan, the warm breath on his ear and neck, was almost enough to stir Anders's passion beneath the layers of pain that were making it difficult to truly think. He became intimately aware of Hawke's hardness pressing against his stomach. He could feel a damp spot where the warrior was leaking pre-ejaculate fluid through his shorts.

"I saved that mage girl, Anders," Hawke hissed, his voice taking a decidedly less gentle tone. "And... Varric helped, let him have his due. Alrik would have made her Tranquil and probably turned her into some kind of mindless sex toy. Good thing we saved her! And what happened then? What did Justice do, what did you _let _him do, to that girl we'd just saved from being made Tranquil?"

Hawke's hand reached the dagger and he twisted it viciously. Anders's scream echoed throughout the still, empty chamber.

"What did you do, Anders?" Hawke asked, perfectly calm even as Anders shrieked in agony inches from his face. "What did you do?"

"I-I killed her," Anders sobbed. "Justice has changed... I can't control him anymore. I've warped him into... into Vengeance."

"That's right," Hawke breathed. He twisted the dagger again, and at the same time squeezed Anders's testicles. The mage screamed and thrashed beneath Hawke, but the warrior was too strong to let him gain an inch of leeway. Hawke kissed him softly, absorbing the vibrations of Anders's agony with his lips and mouth. He raised his head enough to speak once Anders's cries had died down.

"You took a spirit of the Fade into your body. You, a mage, and one raised by the Circle. A fairly _liberal _Circle compared to the Gallows – isn't that what you once told me? I heard a little about that thing with Uldred and the abominations and blood mages, but before that – I often think Bethany would have done well there. Been a lot safer and better adjusted than she was with us, anyway. In some ways, you've had chances my sister _never_ did. You've been taught all your life about the dangers of spirit possession. I know a bit because some of my family were apostates, but you... you really should know better, don't you think?"

Hawke gave the dagger a final, cruel twist; Anders's palm was little more than bloody pulp at this point, and his fingers were grey and crooked. Hawke withdrew the dagger.

"_Don't you think_?" Hawke repeated as he brought the dagger to his mouth and ran his tongue along the bloodied blade. His eyes closed in pleasure.

"Yes," Anders croaked, his voice rough from screaming and sobbing. "I've made a ghastly mistake, and it cost that girl's life. Among other things. I don't know if I can ever begin to make things right but please, Michael, please... stop this. This isn't you. Please, just let me heal my hand."

"Oh, I'm just getting started, sparky," Hawke said. Anders whimpered in pain and fright and closed his eyes as Hawke let the dagger drift lazily down the mage's jaw, scoring a shallow cut. He traced it with the armoured claw of his thumb, deepening the wound as his fingers held Anders by the jaw, inscribing their own bloody marks into the flesh under his chin. He leaned down to kiss him again, invading the mage's mouth with his tongue.

Hawke traveled with his mouth down Anders's jaw and neck to the hollow of his collarbone. There he dug his teeth in while his other hand worked the dagger in a long, slow gash down Anders's neck and shoulder to his upper arm. Anders continued to moan and weep at the pain he was in, but he managed to keep himself from outright screaming or sobbing. His throat was already raw enough.

Hawke gnawed for a moment on Anders's collarbone, enjoying the coppery taste of blood in his mouth and spreading it over his teeth with his tongue. He moved downward, inhaling deeply the scent of blood, sweat, and fear. It stirred him to greater excitement; he gripped Anders's forearms with both hands, dropping his dagger nearby, and bit down hard with his canines on the mage's nipple. The sudden sensitive shock made Anders scream again.

Hawke's eyes traveled around their immediate surroundings, and with a dark, satisfied grin, he saw what he was looking for. A dead templar lay crumpled within reaching distance, clothed in what had once been a formerly impeccably-cared for shirt of chain mail, now shredded by Hawke's greatsword.

Hawke reached out and picked up one of the disparate metallic rings that had once protected the knight. It formed an almost complete circle but for a gap where it had been torn away from its matrix.

"How do you feel about bodily adornment?" Hawke murmured in Anders's ear.

"What?" The mage was bewildered for a moment, but then he felt sharp metal closing around his mangled nipple, and his screams renewed.

Hawke twisted the ring a little to make sure it was secure, then squeezed it between his gauntleted fingers, closing the loop so that it was embedded in Anders's nipple. It would have to be removed eventually, of course – the risk of infection was far from negligible, especially in this dank cavern. But for now, it provided an intimate, painful mode of control over the mage, something that gave Hawke a sensual thrill.

He found another suitable ring and closed it over Anders's other nipple, this time using only the torn edges of the metal hoop to pierce the mage's flesh. Anders, his throat burning and his lungs exhausted from screaming, could only moan and toss his head back and forth.

"Michael... please, don't," he cried between gasps for breath. "Please... stop. I beg you. No more. No more... I've been punished enough."

"Oh, you think so, do you?" Hawke said acidly. "I disagree." He backhanded Anders across his face, already bruised from his earlier punch and bloody from his various cuts. "Quit your puling, abomination. You deserve it all and a lot more and you know it. The whining and pleading is _not _hot."

For the first time, anger briefly flitted across Anders's brow, but it evaporated rapidly under the heat of Hawke's glare. He lapsed into silence, or at least quiet weeping.

Hawke moved himself downwards, tracing his clawed fingers along Anders's chest to scratch ten parallel lines down the mage's torso. He didn't cut deeply enough for the wounds to bleed openly, but the Anders's whimpering was enough to make Hawke tense with anticipation.

He grabbed Anders by his thighs and forced them upwards, inflicting several more puncture wounds as he did, to expose the mage's tight pucker. Hawke moved in with his tongue, gliding it from Anders's sac down the channel to circle the ring of muscle. Anders couldn't help gasping at the intimate, pleasing sensation. It was an unexpected shift from the torment Hawke had inflicted on him thus far.

Hawke paused long enough to remove his undershirt. He shoved Anders's legs upwards again.

"Hold your own legs up, would you?" he said, annoyed. Anders complied, curling his wrists under his knees to avoid irritating his mangled hand.

Hawke used his now-freed hands to spread Anders's buttocks, allowing his tongue deeper access. He spit copiously, spreading his saliva around and thrusting his tongue inward. Anders squirmed a little, his eyes drifting closed, allowing himself to enjoy the sensation and forget some of his pain. It didn't last.

Hawke leaned back and stood up long enough to slip out of his shorts, at last freeing his throbbing erection from its prison. He stroked it a little with his gauntlet as he knelt back down, positioning himself to access Anders's hole. On a metal finger, he gathered some of the fluid that had accumulated on the end of the engorged head of his cock. The cold metal on his heated flesh was delightfully strange.

Hawke reached up to slip his finger into Anders's mouth. Anders licked the pre-ejaculate fluid obediently, but moaned and twisted his head away when Hawke carved a gash into the roof of his mouth. Hawke grabbed Anders by his teeth and jaws and forced him to be still while he inscribed another wound across the mage's upper lip. Perhaps sensing that it was better not to resist, Anders endured the mutilation in silence.

Eager to satisfy his deepening lust, Hawke positioned his cock at Anders's hole and pushed. He let out a low groan of satisfaction as he forced himself inside the tight, slick warmth. He leaned down to silence Anders's panting and whimpering with a kiss, clawing the mage's shoulders and upper arms as he did. He paused for a moment when he had buried his cock as deep as it could go, his balls resting against Anders's butt. Hawke ground his hips against the mage, enjoying the heat and the friction of the mage's clenched insides. He grabbed Anders's ankles, drew himself back out, and began to thrust hard and fast.

Anders was sweating despite the cool air of the cavern, having a hard time suppressing his moans and whimpers of pain. Though Hawke had lubricated himself better than the last time he had fucked Anders, the mage was still far from comfortable with Hawke's rapid, vigorous thrusting. Every time Hawke rammed his cock into Anders it sent a tremor through his body, aggravating his various injuries. His hand and nipples still burned with pain, and the inside of his mouth stung horribly where Hawke had gashed him.

The warrior was beyond caring. Though his eyes were half-closed in ecstasy, Anders could see that Hawke's pupils had dilated further, beyond what was normally physiologically possible for a human being. His eyes were almost entirely black, with only a thin annulus of white sclera still visible. He was also giving off a powerful scent of blood, sweat, and something else – that strange spiciness Anders had noticed yesterday. It was hauntingly familiar, stirring the shadow of a memory, but of what? He was sure now that he had smelled it somewhere before, but where? When?

It was difficult to think coherently with the pain wracking his body and the well-endowed warrior pumping in and out of his tight rectum. Anders was starting to grow used to the carnal rhythm, but it still hurt too much to feel good.

And Hawke... Hawke appeared to be on the edge of finally losing control, like he had on the cliffs yesterday. His pace was increasing, his euphoric expression darkening into one of mingled rage and savage joy.

Hawke turned his head and bit down into the flesh of Anders's calf. Pinned down by the large warrior's dominant position, Anders could do nothing but thrash weakly and yell in pain. Hawke didn't appear to notice; his eyes were closed, blood flowing down his chin, a satisfied groan welling up from deep in his chest. His frenzied thrusting slowed until he pulled his cock all the way out; Anders couldn't help his own relieved groan.

The respite didn't last long. Hawke leaned over and opened his mouth, allowing a stream of bloody saliva to dribble from his tongue and fall onto his dick. He spread the grisly makeshift lubricant around with a claw of his gauntlet and pushed himself back in.

Though the thought of his own blood lubricating Hawke's renewed pounding made Anders feel slightly sick, he couldn't deny that the fuck was smoother and less painful as a result. Even so, the addition of the ragged gouge in his leg, which Hawke had resumed gnawing on and licking at, more than made up for any reduction in his physical discomfort.

Hawke leaned his upper body forward, allowing himself a deeper angle of penetration into Anders. His muscular shoulders forced the mage's legs further down until his shins were pressed uncomfortably against his own shoulders. Hawke's face was right above him; the warrior licked his face, spreading blood and saliva over him.

Anders looked up into Hawke's eyes with barely concealed terror. They were completely black, utterly inhuman. Any remaining doubts lurking in the mage's mind fled at the sight: something was very, very wrong with Michael Hawke, and there was little doubt in his mind that blood magic was involved.

"Did you know," Hawke murmured as he continued to fuck the mage in a fast, now only marginally painful cadence, "that you're one of the only people who calls me by my first name?" He leaned down to kiss Anders with seeming gentleness, but Anders was soon whimpering again as Hawke bit into the mage's lower lip, almost chewing it to encourage the blood to flow. He ran his bloodied tongue along Anders's neck.

"Everyone else who did was from Lothering..." Hawke went on conversationally. He raised his head up again, his empty black eyes staring into Anders's. The mage was deeply afraid of what his lover had become, not the least because of the intimidation of Hawke hovering right over his face. Furthermore, he was confused; why was Hawke talking about Lothering in the middle of sex?

"Most of them are dead now... Malcolm and Leandra... Bethany... Carver usually had some wiseass nickname or other for me, or he just called me 'brother'... Elder Miriam, and the Revered Mother in the Chantry... Luke, my first boyfriend... he died at Ostagar. Hardly anyone else – most of the people I worked for called me 'the Hawke boy' or 'Malcolm's eldest.' But there's you. I think you're the only person I've met in Kirkwall who doesn't call me 'serah' or 'Hawke.' Why is that? I wonder."

Through his tears, his pain, and his fear, Anders forced himself to answer.

"It's because..." His voice was hoarse from screaming. He cleared his throat painfully. "It's because I love you, Michael Hawke. I love the man you are, not the power you represent."

"Even now," Hawke said, sounding intrigued. "Even as I do _this _to you."

He reached out with his thumb and used the metal claw to scratch wickedly down the side of Anders's face. Blood flowed freely from his newest deep injury. Hawke ran his tongue along the gash, collecting the blood.

"Yes," Anders whispered. "Even now."

"Beautiful," Hawke murmured. His eyes glittered like the night sky. "You're so beautiful when you bleed." His head went down to the hollow of Anders's neck; his thrusting rhythm never wavered as he gnawed on the thin flesh over the mage's collarbone.

Broken by the pain he was in, Anders closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift. He thought of the girl he'd killed and found some comfort in the fact that he was being punished for what he'd done. Whatever bizarre affliction had so altered the man he loved, possibly irreversibly, it gave Hawke pleasure to give Anders exactly what he deserved.

For his part, Hawke was in an entirely different world. His heart was beating so fast he could hear the vibration in his head, but it wasn't painful. The world apart from their connected bodies seemed distant and unreal. He could think of little other than the tight, exquisite warmth around his cock and the intoxicating scent and taste of blood. The aggressive rolling of his hips was barely under his conscious control; it felt like he barely had to shift them back and forth to make the euphoria wash over him like the narcotic caress of a drug. When he opened his eyes, Anders seemed feverishly bright and hyperreal; the crimson of his blood stood out in stark relief against his pale skin. The dark, grungy cave around him had retreated, faded away into near nonexistence. Hawke could only fuck, occasionally open a new wound to taste its fresh flow, and float in his ecstatic haze.

After an indefinite stretch of time in this dreamlike world of pleasure and domination, Hawke began to come back to reality a little. The persistent staccato beat of his heart was starting to become mildly painful in his chest and head. The world was becoming slightly more real; he noticed that Anders, below him, had a blank, vacant expression on his face. His eyes were staring into Hawke's, but they were empty. His face was covered in slashes and congealed blood; both his earlobes were shredded, his lower lip badly split, his neck and shoulders covered in bite marks and crusted blood.

Rather than stirring a dormant sense of concern, the sight of his lover in such a state instead reawakened Hawke's excitement. The strong, constant glow of pleasure radiating from his dick had grown almost _too _constant and somehow less satisfying. Hawke wanted more; he wanted to shoot a heavy load of spunk into the mage. His faint headache and the mild burn in his chest spurred his bloodlust back into overdrive.

He leaned his upper body back up to a near-vertical position. Anders, noticing the change, seemed to come awake; he blinked and his gaze focused on Hawke. Something he saw in Hawke's face provoked a relieved expression that seemed to lurk behind his mutilated flesh, but Hawke didn't see.

He reached out with both hands to slip a metal claw through the rings around the mage's nipples. A sly grin crossed his face as he twisted them – not hard enough to tear the rings free, but enough to make Anders's face wrinkle in pain and wring another few pitiful moans and whimpers from his throat. His anal muscles clenched involuntarily around Hawke's dick, and the warrior smiled.

"Yeah," he grunted, his voice rough from not having said anything for some time. "Yeah... squeeze it. Tighten those muscles around me."

Anders complied as best he could, sensing that Hawke was nearing his orgasm and eager to have the ordeal over with. His body was wracked with weakness, however, and he could barely muster any strength in his stretched, loosened sphincter.

"Milk my cock," Hawke said a little louder, twisting one of Anders's nipples harder and reaching down with his other hand to scratch a bloody star into the mage's chest. "Squeeze me... draw out that seed you so desperately want."

Anders cried out as Hawke sped up, increasing his previously slow but powerful rhythm into a frenzy of vigorous thrusting. The constant pain that Anders had grown used to was once again intensifying.

"You do want it, don't you?" Hawke demanded. He squeezed Anders's thighs with his gauntleted hands. "_Don't_ you?"

"Yes," Anders said.

"Of course you do. I'm going to make you beg me for my spunk, you fucking _maleficar_." Hawke drew himself almost all the way out and them rammed his cock back in as hard as he could, enjoying Anders's rhythmic, pained grunts. "You're going to beg me to fill you up, you're so empty inside of anything but pathetic, impotent hatred, and maybe I won't even give it to you. Can you handle it? Huh?" He slammed himself in hard again, as deep as he could go, to emphasize the word. "_Huh_? Can you handle this, mage?"

He was fucking Anders so fast and hard that the mage was screaming again, crying in pain. Hawke gouged his flesh with his gauntlets wherever he could reach, tasting the mage's blood when he could. He reached down with one armoured hand and splayed it over Anders's stomach, then contracted his hand to score another star-shape. He scraped downwards; to his slight surprise, he saw that Anders's cock was rock-hard. Hawke's face lit up in a dark grin.

Hawke shoved the mage's body upwards enough to allow him to continue his fuck-rhythm. With one hand, he enclosed the mage's erection in his metallic grip; with his other, he found his dagger lying on the ground nearby. He stabbed it suddenly into Anders's uninjured hand, nailing it to the ground. The mage shrieked in agony; at the same time, Hawke began to stroke him. The mage shuddered at the dual sensation of his hand being stabbed and cold, bloodstained metal sliding along his length.

Hawke lessened his pace to a slow but solid fuck, pumping himself in and out of Anders hard but not as fast. At the same time he jerked Anders's cock faster, igniting the mage's own dormant desire. Anders squealed and writhed, trying to push himself against Hawke's cock, trying to get him going faster again. Hawke's superior strength was more than able to prevent the mage's efforts.

He did, however, continue speed up the pace of his hand on Anders's cock, watching the sweat on his brow, the desperate plea in his eyes as he edged closer to his orgasm. As he was about to ejaculate, Hawke suddenly withdrew his hand and began to slam his cock into the mage as hard and fast as he could.

Anders moaned in crazed frustration; one of his hands was pinned by the dagger and the other was crippled and useless. He couldn't touch himself, no matter how badly he wanted to.

"Michael..."

"Beg for it. Fucking beg me for it, mage."

"Please," Anders panted. "Please... touch me again. I'm so close..."

"I don't care how close you are! Beg me for _my _seed. You want it inside you, shithead, don't deny it. Beg me for it or you get nothing."

"Please," Anders begged again. "Please come in me, Michael. I beg you. Come inside me, I beg you with my entire being."

Hawke kept up his pace as he leaned down to loom over Anders. He scraped his teeth over several of the slashes decorating Anders's face, reopening several.

"What about Justice?" he whispered. "Justice wants it too, doesn't he? Justice knows what a pathetic piece of garbage he is just as much as you do. I want to hear your spirit beg for my spunk."

Anders groaned in frustration and tried his hardest to summon the spirit. Whereas he had emerged so easily – utterly beyond the mage's control – to attack the templars and then the mage girl, now he cowered in the darkest depths of his subconscious. Anders yelled in his mind, demanding that the spirit emerge and do Hawke's bidding, for both their sakes. But Justice would not. His shame had made his presence small, a tiny spark in the raging storm of Anders's broken mind. There was the slightest flicker of blue in Anders's eyes, under his skin, but nothing else. Justice would not come.

"He can't," the mage sobbed. "I can't. I'm sorry."

Hawke smiled nastily and reached out to yank the dagger from Anders's hand. Immediately, Anders clenched it painfully into a fist and tried to move it over to stroke his stiff member, but Hawke pounded him on the wrist, disabling his hand. Hawke closed his own metallic fingers around Anders's cock and jerked it as he felt his own climax approach.

His pace was frantic, his cock burning with the long-built up pressure and the expected imminent release. His grip on Anders's cock tightened. He felt his balls clench. His pupils, having contracted back to more human dimensions, began to dilate again. He was close... very close... _so close..._

_There... yes!_

Hawke let out a bellow of victory as he finally exploded, deep inside Anders. Anders cried out at the same moment, ejaculating harder than he ever had in his life, spraying his chest and face with semen.

Hawke shouted some more as he rode the wave of pure ecstasy, continuing to fuck for nearly a minute. He shot load after load into the mage, emptying himself utterly in a series of rapturous spasms. His pace and the size of his throbbing member squeezed his spunk out of Anders's abused hole; it dripped down the mage's skin to the dirt of the earth.

At last fully drained, Hawke gave one final, aggressive thrust and collapsed on top of Anders, exhausted, still buried balls deep inside him. His over-accelerated heartbeat finally began to slow, his pupils contracted, little by little, back to their normal size, and reality began to gradually seep back.

Hawke's weight had forced the breath out of the Anders's lungs; he had to struggle to breathe for a few frightening moments. He felt Hawke's tongue drifting lazily over the wounds on his face. When he could, he strained for a glimpse of the warrior's eyes. They appeared to be returning to normal.

For a long time, as Hawke's breathing slowed and Anders began to recover some of his strength, there was silence.

Eventually, Hawke pushed himself off the mage and withdrew his cock. It was still semi-hard, streaked with a gruesome mixed foam of blood, saliva, and semen.

Hawke forced himself to his feet and took off his gauntlets and greaves, leaving them next to the rest of his armour. He stretched and yawned expansively, cracking his neck and various joints. He shook out the coiled tension in his body and loosened his arms. He stared at Anders for a moment, then examined the chamber.

The mauled bodies of the dead templars had long since cooled, and Hawke only now became aware of their pervasive stench. He went to the charred, twisted mass of slag and ruined flesh that had once been Ser Alrik and searched through it, untouched by the macabre nature of his task. He found some documents, still miraculously legible; he spent some time searching the other bodies.

Presently, Hawke returned to where Anders still lay, barely conscious, only half-heartedly trying to work up the strength for a healing spell. He retrieved his armour and put it on in silence; he picked up his greatsword and slid it home. Then he looked at the mage.

"Anders," Hawke said.

The mage looked at him blankly. He was utterly drained, his face grey and pasty behind the blood, his eyes holding only a dim spark.

"I'm sorry," Hawke said quietly. "I really am. But you asked for it that time. You know you did."

Anders looked away and didn't answer, but his silence was enough.

Hawke crouched down next to him. "Look at me."

Anders did so. Hawke's face was inches from his own. He felt Hawke's hot breath on his face, inhaled its bloody aroma. The spiciness was still there – faint, but detectable. The possibility of identifying it seemed remote, but Anders inhaled deeply anyway, trying to ingrain it in his memory. Somehow, somewhere, his sluggish thoughts registered that it was important.

He felt a sudden blessed coolness on one of his mutilated hands. It was a comforting firmness, a wooden shaft. His staff. Hawke had placed it near enough to him that he could use its focal powers to heal himself without too much trouble. He looked from the staff back to Hawke's steady eyes.

"Be very, very careful, mage," Hawke whispered, in a voice of such deadly seriousness that Anders was chilled. "You'll get what you ask for. Every time, until this is fixed. If it ever is... if that's even possible."

He stood and tossed down the documents he'd found on Ser Alrik.

"There's your evidence. It was all Alrik's idea. The Divine rejected it... _Meredith _rejected it. Maybe check your sources better next time."

The Tranquil Solution. Anders had utterly forgotten why they had ever come to this cave in the first place.

Hawke was looking at the crumpled body of the mage girl. "If I were you, I'd find out who she was," he said quietly. "Her family will want to know that she was murdered by a demon."

Anders cringed and curled into a fetal position, trying to muffle his sobs.

Hawke turned away. "Come by the estate later tonight and I'll give you what I've written down about the blood mages." He started to walk away, then paused and looked back. "That is, if you still believe that whatever's wrong with me can be reversed, and if you care enough about your own life to try."

He departed. Anders was left alone in the chamber, covered from head to toe in his own blood. The sunlight entering through the cleft in the ceiling had faded into twilight. The cool, still air seemed to embody the silence that pressed in around him.

Some time later, Anders found strength in some deeply buried, untouched part of himself that had survived his flight from the Circle, survived Vigil's Keep and the psychotic Mother, survived Justice and Kirkwall, survived Karl being made Tranquil and survived Michael Hawke breaking his conscious mind. There, in his secret core, Anders was still Anders the mage, and not Anders the maleficar. Slowly, carefully, he gathered his healing magic and began to repair his body.

**Ω**


	8. Overload

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Overload"**

Time passed.

Hawke's self-control had improved somewhat, and Anders was careful to never afterwards provoke him, intentionally or otherwise. Varric was obviously relieved to see him alive and seemingly unharmed the next day, but a few of the mage's injuries – particularly the ones on his left hand – had been left untreated too long. Anders had done his best to heal himself, but even his extensive knowledge of restorative magic couldn't fully repair the damage. His left hand was functional, but stiff, and moving his fingers occasionally brought out echoes of pain. Fortunately, the residual damage was not obvious, and Anders could hide it well.

Varric seemed to be happy enough to believe that since Anders kept emerging from his close encounters with Hawke relatively intact, that there was nothing to worry about. A few times, however, Anders caught the dwarf examining him closely when he thought the mage wasn't looking. It wasn't long before Varric's critical eye detected the stiffness in Anders's hands, the new care with which he took his steps, and especially his changed behaviour around Hawke. He tended to avoid looking directly at the warrior while speaking to him unless he had to, and he seemed rather more zealous than was necessary about healing Hawke's wounds. Whatever conclusions Varric had drawn, however, he hadn't yet spoken about them to Anders, though the mage figured he would eventually.

Interestingly, Isabela also seemed to have picked up on the altered dynamic between Anders and Hawke. Anders suspected that Varric had filled her in on what he knew, and what he had speculated on. As time went on, Isabela grew conspicuously less snarky whenever both Hawke and Anders were present, avoiding topics that dealt blatantly with sex and baiting Hawke only much more carefully. When he was clearly in a dark mood and responded nastily to anything not immediately relevant to their situation, Isabela fell uncharacteristically silent. Anders sometimes caught her shooting him concerned glances; a few times when Hawke was absent from their usual gathering in the Hanged Man, she even asked him how the mage revolution was going.

Anders was startled by the question, since he knew very well Isabela's views on the plight of Kirkwall's mages. Her carefree attitude had rubbed him the wrong way in the past, and more than one argument had begun over the matter. When he thought further about it, however, Anders suspected that this was the pirate's roundabout way of expressing her concern for him, personally. She could never outright ask him if he was alright; it was simply contrary to the grain of her personality. Though Anders had somewhat lost interest in fighting for mage freedom after Justice – after _he _– had murdered Alrik's captive, he was touched that Isabela actually seemed to care about him after all, despite their clashes in the past. He told her that things were going well – as well as they could be – but declined to offer any further details. Isabela clearly wasn't sure whether to believe him or not, but took his answer at face value with her usual charm.

As for the other members of their mismatched band of adventurers, Merrill was as oblivious as ever, though she did seem to notice Hawke's deteriorating mood and often tried to cheer him up. Sometimes it even worked. Fenris was his usual surly self, though he was considerably more perceptive than Merrill and privately asked Varric what was going on. Varric knew that Hawke and Fenris agreed about slavery, and about the mage situation in Kirkwall, but little else; he was unsure how much of Hawke's confidence he should reveal to the taciturn elf. For that matter, he wasn't really clear about much of the situation himself. He explained what he knew to Fenris, and suggested that he do what the dwarf did: tread lightly around Hawke but watch him closely, and avoid the subject of mages in general. Fenris agreed.

Aveline, for her part, seemed to have deduced much of the situation herself and was choosing to deal with it by not being there. The less laws she saw Hawke breaking, for whatever reason (and there were many), the less reason she had to rail him about it. She was always willing to help Hawke with whatever he needed – she mentioned more than once that she owed him that much, for Donnic among other things, and that for all his (several, enumerated) faults, she cared about him as a friend. But she asked to accompany him and the others on his sojourns around the city and beyond less and less, and her visits to the Hanged Man became correspondingly less frequent.

**ασυνέχεια**

Perhaps inevitably, Michael Hawke was named the Champion of Kirkwall by Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard after his defeat of the Arishok in single combat. Hawke had never had anything but respect for the qunari, and had no interest in taking on their powerful, imposing leader. Aveline had persuaded him, however, to protect the city he had come to call home. The duel was fought at Fenris's suggestion, over Isabela, who had returned with the stolen Tome of Koslun conveniently right as the Arishok was demanding to know where it was.

Hawke hadn't really wanted to fight the qunari or duel the Arishok; those closest to him noticed that his mind had been elsewhere throughout the ordeal. It was Anders who encouraged him, speaking some private words beforehand that none knew save the two of them, but the content of which Varric predictably proceeded to speculate wildly about.

The Arishok was a formidable opponent, and easily proved a match for Hawke's skill and strength. The fight was long and tiring for both combatants; more than once the Arishok appeared to be on the verge of victory, only to retreat as Hawke sprang back from what seemed certain death to resume the battle. Throughout it all, Hawke remained utterly in control of himself, his eyes focused and normal, only drawing on his natural battle fervour.

Finally, after nearly an hour of intense combat, Hawke drove his greatsword through the Arishok's chest, ending the brief qunari-Kirkwall war and saving his city. He collapsed in exhaustion to exuberant cheers rising around him, spreading throughout the city like wildfire with the news of his victory. The last thing Hawke wanted was public gratitude or more pomp and ceremony from Kirkwall's elite; aided by Anders, Varric, Fenris, Isabela, and Aveline, he slipped away to his estate in the chaotic aftermath of his duel, barely acknowledging the Knight-Commander's praise and her bestowal of the title of Champion.

None in Kirkwall would ever doubt Hawke's prowess in combat again, and all wanted to thank him personally for his efforts. Many called on him to take the newly vacant seat of the Viscount. But for days after the duel, the new Champion remained within his estate, and his manservant turned away every single one of the subsequent flood of visitors. The Champion was resting, Bodahn said, and is not seeing anyone at this time. Only a select few, who knew where to find the Hawke estate's hidden entrance, were allowed in. For the rest of Kirkwall, the Champion who had saved them all from the qunari was but a spectral non-presence: a symbol of the might and resilience of their city and a reminder never to yield to foreign influences that only much later would become attached to the actual man.

Thus was born, helped along significantly by Varric, the legend of the Champion: an unknown man who rose rapidly to prominence from an ocean of faceless commoners and refugees to become a hero and saviour; and then, just as quickly, vanished back into the crowds.

**ασυνέχεια**

Throughout the brief qunari invasion and its tumultuous aftermath, during which Knight-Commander Meredith stepped into the role of Viscount of Kirkwall, Anders had continued his efforts to discover what had changed about Michael Hawke's bloodlust. Hawke himself had been reserved since the incident in the cave, and became moodier still after his duel with the Arishok. He grew distant and formal around Anders, speaking little and answering questions briefly.

Though he was a little hurt by the cold treatment, Anders couldn't blame the warrior for not wanting to awaken his bloodlust. He also couldn't help being a little relieved that Hawke was making such an effort to remain in control. Whenever he was around Hawke, there was always a creeping fear that he would lose his hold over himself and fly into insensate rage. His episodes since the night of Leandra's death had escalated in severity each time, and the last had nearly ended in Anders's death. The mage had no desire to test how far Hawke would go, nor what he was presumably capable of.

Hawke had given him detailed, if rather scrambled, reports on his battles with Gascard DuPuis and Tarohne. Later, he completed a report on Decimus and, at Anders's request, Quentin. Anders's drive to fight for the mages of Kirkwall had withered in the face of his shame at his murder of the mage girl. Instead, Anders focused his feverish efforts on researching blood magic. Outlawed everywhere but Tevinter, the forbidden school of magic was nevertheless flourishing in Kirkwall, for several reasons. Anders often had to venture into the city's extensive black market to find ancient tomes of obscene magical practice or imported Tevinter artifacts.

The knowledge he came across was frequently disturbing and often outright sickening, but usually helpful in some way. Once or twice, Anders could find no viable way to test a critical hypothesis other than live experimentation. He absolutely refused to use sapient beings as test subjects, no matter that they would provide a wealth of invaluable information, and he was glad when he said as much to Hawke and the warrior agreed. If Hawke had insisted, Anders might have crossed a line he had long ago sworn never to cross. Only for Hawke would he have compromised his own sense of self in such a way, and he was intensely relieved that Hawke was still himself enough not to take advantage of Anders's devotion to him.

Instead, Anders used goats and other animals as his power source for his first forays into blood magic. This alone was farther than he had ever before taken his pursuit of knowledge, and though it filled him with awful shame and disgust to do so, he never hesitated. Everything he did was for Hawke. Unfortunately, his experimentation meant he had to maintain even greater vigilance for templars and their accomplices; the deep, buried cellars of the Hawke estate were well-suited to his efforts.

Anders never breathed a word of his activities to Aveline, and neither did Hawke; Varric and Isabela had some inkling of what was going on, but they wisely refrained from asking for details. However, Anders soon found himself in the ironic position of asking Merrill for advice and aid. The Dalish elf's knowledge of blood magic was greater than his, and though she was startled and suspicious when he began asking questions, she proved invaluable once she understood that it was to help Hawke.

Though he was making progress, Anders hadn't yet received responses from either of the friends he had asked for help – one for her knowledge, the other for her worldly power and experience. Though he expected missives from one or both fairly soon, several months after the expulsion of the qunari from Kirkwall Anders found himself at a dead end.

He had constructed, painstakingly and at great cost, a theory as to what might be wrong with Hawke. He strongly suspected Tarohne of being the original culprit, and there was some evidence that a spell of Quentin's had catalytically aggravated the effect. There was one critical element missing from his theory to tie it all together, however – each disparate facet of the problem made sense on its own, but without the connecting element, the theory fell apart.

Anders hadn't yet explained his theory to Hawke – Merrill knew more of it than Hawke did, and she had agreed to his request not to say anything to the warrior until they were sure. Until he received an answer from one of his friends, however, Anders had no other option but the one he had been avoiding.

In his explorations of Kirkwall's underworld, Anders had gone through all his contacts, all of Varric's and Isabela's, several more he had made along the way, and most of Hawke's. There was one, however, that he had not yet dared to try. Though Hawke insisted he was mostly harmless and visitors to his lair were entirely safe so long as they followed the rules, Anders had heard far more about Xenon the Antiquarian and his Black Emporium than Hawke knew.

Anders had no desire whatsoever to journey so deep into Darktown, especially to visit such a dangerous and unpredictable entity as Xenon. Unfortunately, at that point every one of his many sources agreed that it was the only such place where he could find what he was looking for – the Emergent Compendium, an enigmatic tome of cryptic, ever-changing knowledge. Sighing, steeling himself and left with no other option, Anders made his decision. Perhaps Xenon himself would also be amenable to sharing some of his knowledge – it would be expensive, but potentially crucial.

Anders intended to broach the subject with Hawke when they were next alone. He didn't anticipate any resistance to his idea – Hawke had offered to take him to the Black Emporium more than once already, and only Anders's unwillingness to expose Hawke or himself to that place any more than absolutely necessary had prevented him from accepting.

All seemed to be going relatively well, considering the circumstances. Hawke hadn't lost control of his bloodlust since the cavern, and as time went on Anders had become less apprehensive about showing affection to the troubled warrior. He treasured the rare times Hawke opened up to him about what he was experiencing, not because Hawke was afflicted with some bizarre, unknowable ailment, but because he trusted Anders enough to talk to him about it.

His urges to kill were becoming more frequent, harder to resist, and harder to separate from the desires of his body. Fighting bandits in the streets at night was an outlet that could take him only so far; furthermore, word was starting to spread among the criminal underworld that hardly anywhere in Kirkwall was safe at night for outlaws. Aveline was even growing suspicious, though none of her guards had ever encountered Hawke.

With the qunari largely gone from the city, Hawke lacked a clear enemy. Despite his unwillingness, the Arishok and his men had posed an obvious threat to the city on which Hawke could focus his wrath. His bloodlust intensified, and his eagerness for battle and desire for sex grew increasingly intertwined. Eventually, as these factors outpaced his willpower, Hawke's control began to slip.

One day, what both he and Anders feared would reoccur finally happened, and Hawke lost himself completely.

**ασυνέχεια**

Hawke had led several of his companions on an "outing" – a hike along the coast, taking advantage of the beautiful weather to look for a Harlot's Blush flower for the Formari herbalist, Solivitus. At the same time, he asked the others to keep an eye out for any remnants of the qunari rebels, the Tal-Vashoth – a qunari envoy in the city, Taarbas, offered compensation for their blades.

Anders accompanied him as always, as did Varric and Isabela. Aveline came with them to keep an eye on them all, and because she intended to investigate reports of bandit activity in the area. Merrill tagged along as well; having recently spent much of her time at the Hawke estate conducting research with Anders, the young Dalish elf had bonded with Hawke's Mabari hound, Reaver. She romped about with him in the grass in a way that Varric had a hard time not thinking of as "frolicking." Reaver danced around her and ran to fetch items she threw for him. These included several sticks and rocks, a broken and decaying shortbow, a human arm bone, a recently dead rabbit, and a half-rotted qunari javelin.

The day was sunny but cool; the sky was cloudless and inviting. A gentle salty breeze drifted in from the placid ocean on their right, the occasional slip of a wave breaking the only other noise from that direction. Anders scanned the path ahead while Isabela traded snide banter with Hawke, who seemed to be in an unusually good mood. Varric kept an eye on Merrill while Aveline scanned far-off rocks and checked behind them frequently, watching for potential ambushers.

As it turned out, she needn't have bothered. All of them heard the first clashes and shouts of a distant battle long before they saw it.

Merrill froze in the act of an overhand throw, undisturbed by the fact that the leg bone in her hand still had some scraps of flesh clinging to it. Reaver was still, his ears perked up, growling. Everyone else paused to listen.

"A fight nearby," Aveline said softly. "Up ahead. ...I hear Tal-Vashoth."

"And humans," Hawke added. "Possibly elves, too. I think we've found your highwaymen, Aveline."

"Let's investigate," Aveline suggested. "But stay out of sight as long as possible."

Hawke led the way towards the distant sounds of combat. All of them were alert now, silent and creeping forward as quietly as they could. Reaver stalked ahead of Merrill, his eyes darting about and searching for danger. Isabela had her blades ready; Varric hadn't even heard them whisper from their sheaths. He unstrapped Bianca from his back and deployed her, loading several bolts.

They approached a bend in the path with the ocean on one side and a high bluff of rock and loose soil on the other. The sounds of battle were now close and unmistakable; the fight seemed to be occurring just around the bend, obscured by the bluff.

Hawke indicated with his hand that the others should wait, but gestured for Reaver to come forward with him. He moved to the edge of the bluff and peered around it. After a few moments of observation, he returned to the group. His face was unexpectedly lit up by an amused grin.

Anders, watching the warrior approach, felt his heart lift. He hadn't seen Hawke smile in months.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

"I don't think we need to worry about being heard," Hawke said, but he kept his voice down too. "It looks like a remnant of the Tal-Vashoth ambushed a band of highwaymen – humans and elves. But their fight also happened to disturb a nest of those really big spiders. It's a three-way brawl."

Varric smiled; Isabela snickered quietly, also seeing the humour. Merrill just looked confused.

"Do you suppose the Tal-Vashoth _drove _the highwaymen into the spiders?" Aveline wondered.

Hawke shrugged, his armour clanking with the movement. "I suppose it's possible. But I saw spiders attacking Tal-Vashoth _and _the brigands both. If that was their intention, they failed pretty spectacularly at keeping the spiders' attention off themselves."

"Thugs versus oxmen versus spiders," Isabela said, still giggling a little. "This I'd like to see. I'm rooting for the spiders, myself."

"Aren't we all," said Aveline. "But we shouldn't leave that to fate. If any of those highwaymen survive, they'll keep terrorizing this area of the coast. They must be dealt with."

Hawke turned around and went back for another look. Aveline went with him, and the others followed a moment after.

"That _does _rather look like an ambush gone terribly, horribly wrong," Aveline commented, after peering around the bluff. Isabela nudged her aside to get a look herself.

"Ripe for a fourth party charging in to scatter them all like rats, don't you think?" Hawke said eagerly, his eyes dancing. He reached behind him and freed his greatsword from its sheath.

"Not yet," Aveline began. "If we wait for them to whittle each other down-"

Her suggestion fell on deaf ears. Before any of them fully realized what was happening, Hawke had yelled a battle cry and charged around the bluff into the fray, Reaver at his heels.

"-we can move in to mop up the survivors," Aveline finished dryly. She sighed and shook her head. She drew her blade, readied her shield, and charged after Hawke. Isabela darted after her; Varric cursed and went too.

Anders and Merrill hung back before following more sedately, it not being immediately obvious where their magic would be the most helpful. As the battle came into view, it was clear that it was already winding down anyway.

Dead humans, elves, and Tal-Vashoth littered the sandy ground. The path here widened into a fairly large, open area; the Tal-Vashoth appeared to have leapt out from behind rocks, or down from an overhanging ledge above the path. Neither they nor the band of highwaymen they had ambushed appeared to have realized that underneath the ledge was a cave in which a number of giant spiders dwelled.

Around a dozen highwaymen and five or six Tal-Vashoth remained alive, but the spiders were clearly winning. Everyone that remained, ambusher and ambushed alike, had banded together temporarily to fight back the flood of angry spiders. Unfortunately for them, the nest they had disturbed was far larger than was indicated by the narrow cave opening. The air was filled with the clashes of weapons, shouts of bravado, fear, and pain, and the hissing and screeching of the spiders.

Their slim chance of victory, born of solidarity in the face of a common enemy, rapidly dwindled to certain doom as Hawke arrived on the scene. He tore into the defenders' line from behind; with his greatsword, the armoured warrior decapitated two humans in one blow, impaled an elf struggling with two short swords against a spider, and engaged a wounded Tal-Vashoth before anyone but the spiders had realized his presence on the battlefield. Reaver immediately went for a spider, tearing its front legs off with his jaws. Cries of rage and frustrated terror ensued.

Aveline arrived at Hawke's side shortly thereafter, defending his right flank from the horde of spiders. The remaining highwaymen, seeing their chances for survival plummeting by the second, turned tail and fled. Several spiders gave chase; a few of the Tal-Vashoth roared their contempt.

"Isabela! Varric!" Aveline shouted. "Stop them!"

Isabela darted through the battling Tal-Vashoth and spiders, somehow managing to evade injury even as she slipped among heaving blades and skittering spider fangs. She slid behind some rocks on the far side of the path near the cave opening, heading towards the fleeing highwaymen. Varric, meanwhile, selected one of his prized explosive bolts and took aim.

"Watch out, Isabela!" Varric yelled in warning, and fired. His bolt passed over Hawke's shoulder, still exchanging frenzied blows with the massive Tal-Vashoth warrior, and impacted solidly into a retreating human. It burst in a voluminous spray of liquid fire, killing the human instantly and knocking several of his charred comrades to the ground.

Isabela appeared as if from thin air and dashed among the groaning, disabled highwaymen, unscrupulously running her blades along their exposed throats as she passed. One or two remained upright and still fleeing; the pirate called out a challenge to them, and they turned back to fight her, incensed at her taunts.

Isabela appeared not to notice that five or six spiders were still coming right at her, so Varric fired again, his impeccable aim pinning one of the spiders to the rock face behind it. Anders and Merrill stepped in to take care of the rest; Anders erected an energy barrier to block the spiders' access to the dueling pirate and her opponents, and Merrill summoned a barrage of fiery projectiles, raining incandescent death from above down onto the indignant arachnids.

Hawke, meanwhile, had managed to gain the upper hand over the skilled Tal-Vashoth he was fighting. He cut downwards across the warrior's body with a triumphant yell; the Tal-Vashoth fell to his knees as weakness and blood loss overcame him. Hawke cut his throat and moved on. At his side, Reaver was snarling and bloodied, savaging the spiders that had gone for Hawke while he fought the Tal-Vashoth. Their next opponents were all spiders – only two other Tal-Vashoth remained alive, fighting on the far side of the path and beset on all sides by the enraged creatures. They wouldn't last much longer. Beyond them, Isabela had handily defeated the two highwaymen, and was now preparing to toss a sticky tar bomb into the mass of spiders.

Varric continued to snipe individual spiders, defended by Hawke, Reaver, and Aveline, but even firing Bianca as fast as was mechanically possible, he could see more and more of the arachnids continuing to emerge from their nest, all of them livid and eager for blood.

"Blondie!" Varric said, attracting Anders's attention. "Do you think you could collapse that ledge in front of the cave? If we don't stop that horde of spiders, they'll just keep coming. Maker knows how many of them there are still in that hole."

"Yes," Anders said. "Good idea. Merrill – can you help me?"

"Yes, I think so," the elf said. "If you push from above and I pull from below, I think we can break the rock off and seal the cave."

"Good. Let's do it, then. Ready? One – two – _three_!"

Merrill gestured emphatically with her staff at the same time Anders slammed his into the ground. The rock ledge cracked ominously, releasing a puff of dust along its length, then came crashing down with a roar. Dozens of spiders were crushed flat under the sudden onslaught of rock and debris; a few others managed to escape the avalanche, but were stunned or otherwise injured by flying chunks of the cliff face.

The staggering, bewildered and annoyed spiders, already wounded and covered in dust, were even less amused when Isabela's tar bomb exploded among them, showering several with devilishly sticky black gunk. Most of them were stuck where they had been, flailing their few unstuck limbs ineffectually as they struggled to free themselves. One or two, their faces covered with the ooze, were unable to breathe and suffocated right there.

Hawke roared with gleeful laughter at the sight and tore into the spiders with renewed ferocity. He carved a swath through them, sending dismembered spider fangs and limbs flying in every direction and stabbing several of them through their large, round bodies. Reaver danced around him, mauling with teeth and claws any spider that got too close to his master's back. Aveline could barely keep up with Hawke as he rampaged through the horde of arachnids; instead, she hung back to defend Varric and the mages, who were picking off spiders from afar.

There were now a manageable number of the arachnids on the battlefield, and it was only a matter of time before they died. Isabela dodged and darted among them, stabbing some spiders with poison glittering on her blades and slicing off others' fangs as she passed. Varric and Bianca sniped any stragglers that detached themselves from the horde; Merrill chose to magically alter the spiders Isabela targeted, making them stumble around in confusion or freeze with alien terror. Anders kept an eye on Hawke, readying a healing spell, but the maverick warrior was moving around and swinging his sword too quickly for Anders to see if he was even wounded. Aveline, for her part, was kept busy stabbing several spiders who went for Varric, Anders, and Merrill; many of them she cut up enough to leave floundering and issuing gouts of black blood, too wounded to continue their attack. Others she simply bashed hard in the face with her shield, crushing their heads or rendering them stupefied and easily dispatched.

Soon enough, only a few spiders remained alive, crawling over piles of their dead comrades. The Tal-Vashoth had long since succumbed to the spiders' fangs and claws and lay trampled beneath a wash of dead spiders.

Isabela made her way, panting and covered in spider blood but uninjured, over to where Aveline stood with Varric, Anders, and Merrill. She turned to watch Hawke, his greatsword dancing among the few spiders still alive, taunting them into falling against his blade. That was when he made his mistake.

A confused spider emerged from a mound of its dead brethren near where Isabela had killed the fleeing highwaymen. It cast around dazedly, spotted Merrill, and skittered towards her with a drunken weave to its gait. It hissed and screeched a challenge, attracting Hawke's attention.

"Reaver!" Hawke called. "Get it!"

The Mabari hound, his thick coat having protected him from the spiders' fangs and still enthused for combat, barked happily and charged the attacking spider.

"There's no need," Isabela said, entertained, as Merrill raised her staff threateningly. "There are five of us here..."

Hawke didn't hear her, still kicking and stabbing at the spiders attacking him. Aveline started moving towards him, ready to render assistance, but Hawke's careening blade was almost as dangerous to approach as the massed spiders.

"He can finish them off," Varric said to the Guard-Captain. "Let him have his fun, it works off stress."

Aveline acknowledged the dwarf's comment but continued to move forward, just in case. Her caution proved timely.

Hawke gave a final roar and a mighty slice, cutting off the entire top half of a spider and then unnecessarily cutting the twitching bottom half into quarters. Panting with the exertion of battle, he leaned over, sword across his knees.

Anders looked at Hawke closely. His pupils were widely dilated, having covered most of the green in his eyes. Exhausted, coming down from his battle high, Hawke didn't notice the one last spider going stealthily for his back. Reaver, teeth and claws buried in the other spider across the path, wasn't around to defend his back as usual.

"Hawke! Look out!" Aveline said, and Hawke turned around in time to get a face full of spider claws. The enraged beast had leapt at him from atop several of its dead nestmates. Its fangs found his neck and sliced; its clawed appendages scrabbled at his armour, the sides of his face and the top of his head. Unable to raise his long, heavy sword in time, Hawke fell over backwards with the spider on top of him.

Isabela and Merrill let out startled gasps; Anders was already halfway towards the scene, but Aveline was closer still. She impaled the spider cleanly, lifted its entire body on her sword, and swung it against the rock face with a _splat._

"Michael!" Anders exclaimed as he came upon Hawke. The warrior was alive and blinking, breathing hard, but his face and neck were savaged. Anders reached down to help him up, but Hawke leapt to his feet on his own. Anders looked at him, words forming on his lips asking him to stay still so he could heal him. Hawke cut him off with a fiery kiss before he could speak. His tongue invaded Anders's mouth; his arms crept around the mage's shoulders to grab the back of his head.

Aveline rolled her eyes as she yanked her blade from the dead spider and wiped it on the arachnid's hairy body. Merrill giggled, while Isabela made an appreciative noise and fanned herself. Varric rubbed his forehead and said "Hawke, is this the time?"

Hawke ignored them all. Anders tried to push him away, and because Hawke didn't appear to be expecting it, he succeeded somewhat the first time. It was long enough to catch a glimpse of the warrior's eyes – they were completely black, totally inhuman. His mouth locked on the mage's again.

Anders struggled. He freed himself long enough to say "Help! Help!"

Aveline looked up. Merrill stopped giggling; Isabela paused. Varric moved forward.

Anders freed his mouth from Hawke's hungry kissing again, but it was becoming impossible to keep the warrior off him. Hawke's tongue and teeth were moving all over the mage's face and neck, smearing his own blood on Anders's skin.

"He's lost control!" Anders yelled, an edge of panic in his voice. "Get him off me, hurry!"

Aveline had no idea what was going on, but she could read the fear in Anders's voice. She stepped in and grabbed Hawke by the shoulders, attempting to yank him back and away from the mage. Hawke snarled at her, and Aveline gasped, startled backwards by his empty, ebony eyes and the resonant, otherworldly groan in his voice.

"Holy Andraste!" Aveline said. "Anders, what's wrong with him?"

By this time, Isabela and Varric had reached them. Isabela pulled Anders away as Hawke was going for him again with his teeth bared in an animalistic snarl; the dwarf slid around Anders and attempted to trip Hawke. The warrior turned his glare on Varric and reached for his throat, but a burst of spirit magic sent him reeling. Hawke turned to Merrill as Varric scampered away. The elf looked terrified and astonished at what she'd just done, but her face and voice were determined as she raised her staff and pointed it at him.

"Hawke," she said, a barely perceptible tremor in her voice, "relax. Come back to us."

Aveline had recovered herself and was heading for Hawke again as he lunged for Anders and Isabela. The pirate stepped forward, one of her blades raised threateningly, but Hawke dodged easily around it and backhanded her hard enough to knock her to the ground. He let out another furious roar, and a clearly inhuman and otherworldly wail simmered under his voice. It was like no sound any of them had ever heard before. Covered in blood, snarling like a demon and with eyes black and deadly, Hawke had suddenly become terrifying and dangerous and utterly unfamiliar.

"Maker's breath!" Varric exclaimed. "What _is _that?"

"Aveline," Anders panted. "Hold him for a minute – I'll try to contain it!"

Aveline wrapped her arms around Hawke in a bear hug from behind. He immediately struggled, trying to wrench his arms free and tossing Aveline around on his back like a clinging child.

"Flames, he's strong!" Aveline cried. "Reaver! Help me!"

The Mabari hound charged forward, perhaps recognizing a change for the worse in his master or perhaps obeying the Guard-Captain whom he knew almost as well. He locked his powerful jaws around Hawke's wrist and tugged him off balance, allowing Aveline to secure her grip. Hawke snarled again, incoherent in his mania. The otherworldly resonance was deeper this time; everyone present felt its thrum in their chests.

"Hurry, Anders!" she yelled.

Anders gestured, green creation magic flowering around his palm and his staff as he twisted it in an arc before him. A green glyph flashed into being under Hawke's feet. Its magic surged upwards, paralyzing him where he stood.

"Now back away, Aveline," Anders called. She did so; Reaver let go and backed off as well. Anders lifted his staff, and the glyph rose out of the ground, rotating around Hawke and tracing a translucent green cage of spiraling light to keep him contained.

Anders helped the stunned Isabela to her feet as the others gathered around the imprisoned warrior, staring at him in fear and wonder. Hawke was frozen in place, his face twisted into a defiant snarl, teeth bloody and eyes completely black. If there was a person still inside his distorted mind, it wasn't anyone they knew. He was giving off a powerful scent of fresh blood, much more so than would be expected from his wound, tinged with something else – something spicy and unfamiliar.

"That is absolutely _not _normal," Isabela commented. She sounded afraid and a little peeved, cradling her bruised jaw. "What's wrong with him?"

"Yes," Aveline said. "What _is _wrong with him, Anders? What in Andraste's name was that noise he was making? I've never heard anything like it. The human throat is not supposed to be able to make that kind of sound."

"It sounded like-" Merrill began, but Anders silenced her. Aveline and Varric looked at him suspiciously.

"It's... a bit of a long story," Anders said cautiously. "First let me heal him – I think that's what triggered it. It should bring him back to normal."

The rest of them watched in silence as Anders raised and pointed his staff, flicking weaving tendrils of blue energy off it to swim through the green magical cage and curl almost tenderly around Hawke's injured neck. Before their eyes, the healing magic closed the lacerations, knit the rent flesh back together and staunched the flow of blood. In moments, Hawke was healed.

As it happened, he underwent another remarkable transformation. His pupils shrank to their normal dimensions, his eyes becoming human again. The spicy scent around him disappeared as quickly as it had manifested. Though his face and body remained frozen as they were, the menace seemed to drain away from him. He was Hawke again, just posed threateningly and paralyzed.

Anders tapped his staff on the ground with a brief flash of green force. The translucent spiral cage remained, but the paralyzing glyph oscillating inside it faded away. Hawke stumbled against the wall of his prison, his hateful glare melting away into a panicked frown and his hands moving to claw at his neck.

"Spider!" he yelled.

Anders and Varric looked at each other. Aveline was frowning intently.

Hawke rapidly realized that the spider wasn't there. He looked at his hands, then up to see everyone staring at him through the filmy green barrier.

"What...?" Hawke said. "Maker's breath, where's that spider? Why am I..." He reached out to touch the barrier, feeling its solidity. He tapped it a few times with an irritated look on his face. "What just happened?"

"Michael," Anders said cautiously. "What do you remember?"

Hawke squinted and ran his fingers through his hair. "Uhh... fighting. Tal-Vashoth and some brigands... Lots of spiders... I killed quite a lot of them, but then one snuck up on me and it bit me in the neck." He examined his neck with his hands. Finding no wound, but a lot of still-congealing blood, he looked up with a dark expression on his face. "Would someone _please _tell me what is going on?"

"He doesn't remember anything after the spider attacked him," Isabela muttered. "Convenient." She rubbed her bruised jaw gently, looking away from Hawke's inquisitive gaze.

Anders raised his staff. "I'm going to release him."

Aveline stopped him with a gauntleted hand on his wrist. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"I would like to echo that concern," Varric put in. "How do we know he won't go nuts again and kill us all?"

Anders shook off Aveline's hand. "He won't. He's fine now. It's only when he loses control that he becomes dangerous."

Aveline stared hard at him, and Anders stared right back, refusing to look away. Eventually Aveline nodded slowly. "But when we get back to Kirkwall," she warned, "you and I are going to have a talk."

Anders shook his head. "Whatever." He tapped the green barrier with his staff. Hawke, who had been watching their exchange with narrowed eyes, was now able to stretch his arms; he did so.

Varric raised his hand. "I think I'd like to be included in that discussion."

"Me too," Isabela agreed. Hawke folded his arms, and this time it was he who looked away from her accusing stare.

Varric looked at Merrill. "How about you, Daisy?" he asked. "You should probably come, too. This... this is looking like it will affect us all."

Merrill looked embarrassed. "I... um... kind of already know," she said.

Aveline looked at her. "What? What do you mean, you already know?" She glanced at Hawke, who glared back in sullen silence, arms still crossed. He seemed to have worked out what had happened on his own and was allowing them to discuss him without interrupting.

"This..." Aveline went on. "Hawke is the Champion of Kirkwall. Whatever this is, it has serious potential to affect the stability of the city."

"Yes, probably," Hawke said. Aveline looked at him, surprised.

"Daisy... what is it exactly that you already know?" Varric asked.

Merrill looked uncomfortable. "Anders can explain it better than I can," she said. "He's the one who really understands... I've just... helped him with some things he wasn't as familiar with."

"_What _things?" Aveline said severely, but she could read the answer in Merrill's uncomfortable silence as easily as she could read it in the distressed expression on Varric's face. Blood magic.

"Stop bothering her, Aveline," Hawke cut in. He retrieved his sword and sheathed it as he glanced around at the various Tal-Vashoth corpses strewn about, most of them almost entirely obscured by dead spiders. "There should be some qunari swords here for Taarbas, and I think I see a Harlot's Blush flower on the far side of the path. Let's collect what we need and head back to the city."

There was no arguing with the tone of command in his voice. Merrill went to collect the flower while Aveline and Hawke recovered a few undamaged qunari blades, carrying them carefully over their shoulders. Isabela and Varric searched the rest of the bodies, human, elven, and Tal-Vashoth, for anything else of value. Reaver sniffed the ground around Hawke's feet, once looking up at his master with apology in his eyes. Hawke smiled down at his hound and rubbed his head, not even knowing what the dog had done but not caring, either.

Merrill offered the harvested flower, its roots left carefully intact, to Hawke. He took it and thanked her, and she smiled tentatively. Hawke set off back towards Kirkwall without another word; the others had little choice but to follow him in thoughtful silence.

**ασυνέχεια**

There was one more surprise waiting for them all as they entered the Hawke mansion through the Hightown entrance. Aveline had determinedly followed Hawke all the way there, and he didn't object, recognizing that she would not leave until she had answers. Anders stayed with him, and Varric and Isabela, realizing Aveline's intent, followed suit. Merrill seemed to want to peel away and head for the alienage, but reluctantly remained with the group at Anders's quiet request.

They filed through the narrow doorway into the antechamber. Bodahn appeared at once, searching for Hawke. He seemed anxious, but in a cheerful way.

"Messere Ha- ah! More guests! Er... Messere Hawke?"

"Yes, Bodahn," Hawke said tiredly, not looking up from unfastening his breastplate. "Fetch us some tea, if you please... did you say _more _guests? Who's here?"

"Well, that's the thing, Messere..." Bodahn stepped aside as a silhouetted figure appeared in the light of the common room beside him.

"Maker's breath," Anders breathed. "I... I didn't expect you'd come in person."

Hawke looked up, surprised.

A petite elven woman, somehow looking wiry and imposing despite her slight stature, stood next to Bodahn watching Hawke with interest. Her dark black hair was pulled into a severe bun behind her head. Intricate tattoos danced across her face. She wore a suit of light plate, covered in nicks and scratches that attested to its past effectiveness even as it seemed to curve effortlessly around her, enhancing her shape and natural beauty. Two swords, one of them glimmering with obvious magical enchantment, were sheathed at her waist.

"Michael Hawke," said the woman. She reached out to shake his hand. "I've heard a lot about you – the fabled Champion of Kirkwall. It is an honour. I am Eingana Tabris, Warden-Commander of Ferelden."

**Ω**


	9. Secrets

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Secrets"**

Hawke shook the Warden-Commander's hand in mute surprise, his armour still only half unstrapped.

"Shall I prepare the sitting room, Messere Hawke?" Bodahn asked, eyes moving among the group and counting their numbers.

"Uh... yes," Hawke said after a moment, recovering from his shock. "And one more will be joining us."

"I shall see to it, Messere." Bodahn disappeared.

Hawke indicated Eingana should move into the common room, the antechamber being rather crowded. She did so, and he followed with the others at his heels.

"Who else is joining us?" Anders asked.

"I'll send Reaver to get Fenris," Hawke said. "He'll want to hear... this."

Anders's faced curdled, but he nodded.

Hawke called his dog to his side and knelt down to rub his fur. "Go get Fenris, boy," he said. "Bring him here."

Reaver barked an affirmative and licked Hawke's face, then dashed off out the door. Hawke stood and turned to Eingana, suddenly remembering his manners.

"It's, uh, an honour to meet you," he said as sincerely as he could, trying not to sound sarcastic. "I trust Bodahn's been accommodating?"

Eingana smiled. "Bodahn and I are old friends. We've been catching up."

Hawke's eyes widened a little as he worked at the remaining catches of his armour. "That's right – I remember him mentioning that he knew you when I first met him. Years ago. I wasn't sure whether or not to believe it at the time."

"Bodahn was a great help to me during the Blight," Eingana said. "And Sandal's enchantments saved my life more than once. Helped take out the archdemon, too." She indicated the glowing blade at her hip.

"I don't doubt it," Hawke said. "That boy's helped me out of some scrapes." He looked around and found Anders, still watching the elven woman with surprise. "I take it you're one of the 'friends' Anders wrote to?"

"She is," Anders said. "Eingana has far more experience fighting blood magic than I do. I met her in Amaranthine after the Blight – she's the one who recruited me into the Grey Wardens."

Eingana moved forward to hug Anders. His face reddened slightly as the Hero of Ferelden folded her arms around him.

"Anders," she said. "How have you been?"

"I've been... uh... better," he answered, hugging her back.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said as she drew back. "And Justice?" she added before Anders could say anything else. A little start of surprise rippled around the room.

"He's been better, too," Anders said quietly. "Eingana, not that I'm not happy to see you, but why are you here? Surely you didn't come all this way just to answer my letter in person?"

"Not just that," she said. "I have business in Kirkwall."

Hawke turned around from mounting his armour on a stand in the corner of the room. Isabela was watching him openly with a salacious smile, admiring the muscular warrior in his undershirt and trousers. Aveline was fidgeting, clearly wanting to speak but politely waiting for an opening. Merrill seemed to be shyly avoiding looking at Eingana, while Varric was standing with his arms folded, trying not to smile.

"I'm going to get changed," Hawke said. "...Introduce yourselves to the Hero of Ferelden, would you? Don't just stand there like a bunch of star-struck imbeciles." He left, thumping up the stairs and out of sight. Anders glanced at Aveline once and coughed surreptitiously before following him.

Eingana laughed. "I like him," she said. "Is he always so... blunt?"

"Yes and no," Varric said. "He's actually rather... _sharp_, most of the time. That was positively polite for Hawke."

"Oh my," said Eingana.

Varric moved toward her to shake her hand. "Varric Tethras, at your service. It's an honour – I've heard the stories. Made up a few, too. I hope you don't mind."

Eingana smiled and shook her head. "It's my pleasure, Varric. I've spent some time in Orzammar... normally I would compliment your beard, but since you don't have one, I will instead compliment your chest hair. It is magnificent."

Varric chuckled. "Thank you. My family does come from Orzammar, but I was born on the surface, so I've thankfully never had to deal with caste politics. Well – not _real _caste politics, anyway."

Eingana's gaze moved to Isabela, waiting in a sensual pose by the staircase. Her eyes lit up. "Isabela!"

The pirate greeted her with a warm hug and a wink. "I was wondering when you'd notice me there."

"You _know _each other?" Varric asked in surprise.

"We met in Denerim before the archdemon laid waste to it," Eingana said. "I could never _not _notice you, Isabela. Still dueling? Educating fools, stealing their gold?"

"Of course," Isabela said with a wink. "How's Alistair? I do miss him. He was so... enthusiastic."

Eingana waved her hand. "Oh, you know. Just as much a royal bastard as ever."

Aveline couldn't restrain a gasp at hearing the king of Ferelden spoken of in such terms. Eingana noticed, and calmed her with a reassuring smile.

"The king and I were... close, once," she explained. "The 'royal bastard' joke is a reference to his parentage. Or lack thereof. He was the one who made it first!"

Aveline still looked a little uncomfortable, but shook it off and stepped forward. "Ma'am – it's a very great honour to meet you. My name is Aveline Vallen." She bowed. "I fought at Ostagar. Thank you, so much, for saving our homeland. And the world. You are truly deserving of the title 'Hero of Ferelden.'"

Eingana looked flattered. "You're welcome," she said, touching her forehead self-consciously. "People _still _call me that. All I really did was kill the equivalent of a high dragon. Well, two, really, but the one... actually, that other one... technically just three high dragons. ...And there were two more after that, now that I think about it. Still..."

"I've done that," Hawke said as he descended the stairs in his finery, Anders behind him. Eingana turned to him, pretending not to notice Aveline staring at her with her mouth open. "Not five, but I have killed a high dragon. Interesting battle."

"Oh? A high dragon, around Kirkwall?" Eingana asked with interest, not at all incredulous. "Not a threat to be taken lightly."

"She was terrorizing a mine I had some share in," Hawke said idly, straightening his tunic as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Anders stepped off the last riser next to him.

"Her brood had been a pain in the ass for years beforehand," Hawke went on. "I took care of it... remember that, Varric? Isabela and Anders were there too."

Isabela shuddered. "Don't remind me."

Varric chuckled. "I had fun that day. She was the biggest, meanest, most pissed-off thing I have ever seen. I'm just glad she never even looked at me while I was firing bolts at her mouth and eyes. She was having far too good a time picking up Hawke and tossing him around like a rag doll, slamming him into things and spitting fire at him."

"Bitch," Hawke said darkly. "That thing was a _bitch_."

Eingana looked impressed. "But you killed it anyway."

"Eventually, and with help," Hawke said. He drew his sword from where it hung in its sheath next to his armour stand. The greatsword was massive and heavy, but Hawke easily lifted it before him with one hand. "I had to get onto its neck and stab it through the head... five or six times, while it was thrashing around underneath me and Isabela was leaping about its feet, jumping up and slicing its wings to ribbons."

"I was absolutely _drenched _in dragon's blood," Isabela said ruefully. "Stank like the Void."

"It was a good look on you," Hawke said. "And then, when it finally died, I managed to fall right off the fucking thing and wreck my shoulder really bad." Hawke spun the sword in his hands a few times, making it whistle and catch the afternoon light streaming through the window. He looked at Anders and allowed himself a small smile. "But my mage was there to heal me."

Anders met Hawke's eyes with a sad smile.

Eingana didn't seem to notice the current flowing between the two of them. Her eyes were dancing, reminiscing about past battles with dragons. "It's a rush, isn't it?" she asked in a lively tone.

Hawke's eyes went to her and his smile grew. "Like nothing else," he said quietly.

"But then, afterwards," Isabela said. "Why did you have to do that? It was disgusting. I still have nightmares about-"

"Rivaini," Varric said sharply. The pirate looked at him.

"What?" she asked, not noticing that Anders was clearly annoyed and that Aveline was looking between her and Hawke with hostile suspicion.

"Not right now," Varric said quietly but firmly.

Hawke retrieved an oiled rag, determinedly ignoring Aveline's stare, and began to clean the crusted spider blood off his sword. "Have you met everyone?" he asked Eingana.

"Not quite everyone," Eingana said tactfully. She cast a friendly smile towards Merrill. The quiet elf seemed to be trying to hide behind Varric, failing for obvious reasons. Noticing Eingana's attention, Merrill blushed lightly and curtsied.

"_Andaran atish'an_, Warden-Commander," she said uncertainly. "I am honoured. Your actions have done much for the People. Thanks to you, we are that much closer to what we once were. On behalf of myself and my clan, _ma serannas_."

For the first time, Eingana looked a little uncomfortable. "I don't know that my actions have really benefited our kind," she said. "I'm... er... not even really one of the People. Not _truly._ I grew up in an alienage. I don't even know the old tongue."

"You don't?" Merrill looked briefly shocked, but she recovered quickly. "No matter. You are still one of us. You have brought glory to all the elvhen." She brightened as an idea seemed to strike her. "I could teach you! The old tongue, I mean." She reddened. "That is, if you'd want to learn. From... me. If you have time – if you'll be in Kirkwall long. I know you must be very busy." She took a breath and made a visible effort to stop babbling.

"I'd like that," Eingana said warmly, and Merrill smiled, relieved that she hadn't caused offense.

"This is very touching," Hawke said without looking up from cleaning his sword, "and cultural reunification of the elves and all that, good, but maybe we should sit down instead of standing around?" He glanced at Aveline. "In heavy plate? I, for one, would like to know why the Warden-Commander has chosen to grace us with her presence. Aren't you all exhausted from fighting spiders?"

He gave his sword a final wipe and sheathed it with a snap, looking up to see everyone staring at him in shock. Varric was still suppressing a smile. Anders looked pensive. Eingana was watching him with one eyebrow raised archly.

"The sitting room is _that_ way," Hawke added after a moment in which nobody said anything. He gestured emphatically.

"There are other matters that still need to be discussed," Aveline said tersely.

Hawke rolled his eyes. "This is the same thing, Aveline. Anders wrote to the Commander for advice on dealing with my..." His face darkened and he averted his eyes. "Just go sit down. I'll wait for Fenris."

Isabela broke the confused tension by lurching forward from her relaxed pose against the stairs and heading in the direction Hawke had indicated. Varric, Merrill, and Eingana followed her. Aveline looked hard at Hawke for a moment before going with them.

Anders tried to take Hawke's hand in his own, but Hawke brushed him away. "Go sit down with them," he said without looking at the mage. "I'll be in shortly."

"Michael," Anders said softly. "Are you-"

"Enough, Anders," Hawke interrupted him sharply. "I told you upstairs I will not discuss this right now. I haven't changed my mind in the last three minutes."

Anders exhaled softly and left for the sitting room.

Hawke spent some time brooding silently and polishing his armour, listening to the murmur of voices in the other room and the clatter of the teapot being passed around. Presently there was a commotion in the antechamber as Reaver returned with Fenris, butting his head against the door to open it and barking enthusiastically.

Hawke put down his polishing cloth and went to meet the surly elf. "Fenris," he said as he knelt down to pat Reaver in gratitude. "Thank you for coming. The Warden-Commander of Ferelden is here. I think you'll want to be included in this discussion."

Fenris looked down at him for a moment, his lyrium-etched face inscrutable. Then he said, "Does this have anything to do with you losing control of your bloodlust and using it as an excuse to sexually abuse your mage lover?"

Hawke blinked and rose to his feet. "What?" he said sharply as Reaver disappeared into the mansion with the clicking of Mabari paws.

"I'm not blind, Hawke," Fenris said evenly. "Nor am I deaf, nor am I stupid. I know the kind of fervour you get into in battle. I experience something similar myself, though I know how to control it. I don't become aroused by bloodshed, and I've never turned on my allies."

Hawke's face darkened and anger surged in his gut. He resisted the urge to lean forward and grab the lean elf by his neck, since that would only prove Fenris's point. Instead he said softly, "I seem to remember you telling me a story about some time you spent on Seheron. Who were those friends of yours, again? The ones who taught you what it meant to be free? Oh, yes... the Fog Warriors."

Fenris scowled at him. "That was-"

"Under orders from your master at the time, yes. And you only really realized that you had a choice _after _you'd hacked them apart. Well, I don't have the luxury of an Imperial magistrate who thinks he owns me and is clearly ordering me to do things I don't want to do. It just _happens_. You think I _want _to become a crazed animal and get off on cutting up the man I love?"

"I think it's rather obvious that you enjoy it," Fenris shot back. "Perhaps so much so that you do not wish to stop."

Hawke turned away abruptly, forcing himself not to speak, choking on his rage. His heart was pounding and he was starting to hyperventilate. He had to get control of himself. Already he was itching for his sword, sheathed and newly polished steps away in the common room. He could already smell blood, the imagined scent filling his nostrils and making his pupils dilate.

With a supreme effort, he reined in his surging bloodlust and turned back around. Fenris was still glaring at him, obviously feeling that Hawke's reaction only proved his point.

"This is a serious problem, Fenris," Hawke said with forced calm. "Yes, I... enjoy battle. I always have and I always will. But I _don't _want to completely lose control of myself just because of that." He took a deep breath. "Anders thinks I may have been affected by blood magic."

Fenris's eyes widened and he backed up a little. His frown deepened.

"Whatever the cause," Hawke went on before the elf could speak, "something is clearly wrong with me. It's getting worse and if it isn't fixed, it will _keep _getting worse." He indicated the rooms behind him with a jerk of his thumb. "We're here trying to discuss possible solutions. We'd appreciate your input, seeing as how this affects you and you've seen blood magic do Maker-knows-what in Tevinter. Join us or don't."

Hawke turned around and left the antechamber, heading for the sitting room. He heard the door close behind him, and was relieved when a moment later he sensed rather than heard Fenris's silent presence behind him.

**ασυνέχεια**

Bodahn was setting down a platter of biscuits and a fresh pot of tea when Hawke entered with Fenris. Varric, Isabela, and Merrill sat on one of the plush upholstered couches. Anders and Eingana occupied another couch set at a right angle to the first, and Aveline sat on a wooden stool she had evidently dragged in from the kitchen; despite what Hawke had said, she was still wearing her heavy plate armour.

Eingana was looking around, apparently impressed at the art and sculptures that decorated the room. She looked at Bodahn as he was picking up the empty teapot.

"Is Sandal here?" she asked.

Bodahn paused. "He's asleep right now, ma'am, but if you stay a while, I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you again." He noticed Hawke and Fenris. "Greetings, Messeres," he said, nodding to the elf. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"No," Hawke answered. "Thank you, Bodahn."

Bodahn bowed and departed.

"Warden-Commander," Hawke said. "This is Fenris, a friend of mine."

Fenris's mouth quirked a little at Hawke's choice of descriptor, but he didn't correct him. He inclined his head to Eingana. "Pleased to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," she said as Hawke sat down in an armchair across the short, broad table from where she sat with Anders. She examined his lyrium markings with interest. "Are those – Dalish tattoos?"

"No," said Fenris briefly. Rather than joining Eingana and Anders on the couch or taking the other empty armchair, he brought the simple wooden chair over from the writing desk and sat down on it.

Eingana looked curious, but Hawke headed her off. "That's a bit of a story," he said. "If you ask him about it – another time – perhaps Fenris will tell it to you."

Fenris glanced at Hawke, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, but he said nothing.

Eingana nodded. "To business, then," she said.

"Pardon me, Commander," Aveline interjected. "I'm not sure how much you know about what is going on, or what your involvement is." She eyed the mage sitting next to Eingana. "Anders – and Merrill, for that matter – seem to know a lot more about whatever is going on with Hawke than the rest of us do. All I know is that after we engaged a nest of giant spiders in battle today, as well as the highwaymen they had attacked, Hawke seemed to... to..." She shook her head, searching for the right words to describe what she had seen.

"He went crazy," Isabela said helpfully. She looked at Hawke, who looked back at her impassively. "His eyes turned completely black and he made noises that sounded like a demon."

Hawke's eyes widened. "I did?" He hadn't known that.

"You don't remember what happened?" Eingana asked him.

Hawke scowled and shook his head. "I usually do," he said. "But that time I just... blanked out. A spider was on top of me, biting my neck open, and the next thing I knew I was standing upright in a magical cage – no spider and no neck wound."

"I wouldn't call the sounds he was making demonic, exactly," Aveline said thoughtfully. "Personally, I was reminded of an abomination." She looked at Hawke, inviting an explanation. Hawke glared back at her and said nothing.

"What else did he do?" Eingana asked. She glanced at Hawke as if to apologize for discussing him in his presence.

"He started making out with Anders," Isabela said immediately. "Licking him and stuff, and trying to bite his ears. At first it was even... well, kind of hot." She smiled charmingly.

Eingana looked startled. Anders reddened; Varric coughed. Hawke sat in annoyed silence, grinding his teeth together.

"He also hit me really hard," Isabela went on. "In the face. With his metal gauntlet on. And, he nearly got Varric by the neck – and he shoved Aveline backwards when she tried to stop him." She looked around. "Did I miss anything?"

"No," Anders said forcefully. "Thank you, Isabela. That will do."

"Here to help," Isabela said cheerfully.

"And do you always... erm..." Eingana's eyes moved back and forth as she searched for words. "Act like that when you lose control, Hawke?"

"Only when he's alone with Anders," Varric put in. "Or thinks he will be shortly."

Hawke silenced the dwarf with a nasty glare, and then turned to Eingana. "How much did Anders tell you in his letter?" he asked a little heatedly. He was starting to regret allowing everyone else to be present at this meeting.

Anders answered his question by addressing the Warden-Commander. "Eingana," he said. "You remember what I said about... how his bloodlust had intensified after he fought a certain blood mage?"

"The one that killed your mother," Eingana said softly, looking at Hawke. He nodded stiffly.

"And that night was the first time he... well, lost control," Anders continued. "Like _that_, I mean. Hawke's always been..."

"Violent," Isabela suggested.

"Bloodlusty," Varric added.

Fenris said, "Excited by-"

Hawke cut him off. "Are you familiar with the term 'reaver', Warden-Commander?"

Eingana nodded slowly. "Yes. I once encountered a cult of dragon-worshipers in the remote Frostback Mountains. Many of their fighters were reavers."

Hawke stared at her for a moment, still grinding his teeth. Then he looked away and said in a quiet voice, "When I was seventeen, a band of travelers passed through Lothering. One of them was a reaver. I met him in the tavern, and we got to talking over drinks. I told him how I enjoyed fighting, how talented I was at spilling blood, how it awakened a kind of – primal lust to fight inside me, how I felt more alive the closer I came to my own death. He told me he knew exactly what I was talking about and invited me to go hunting with him the next day."

The silence in the room was palpable. Everyone had grown still, watching Hawke and waiting with bated breath for him to continue. None of them save Anders had ever heard Hawke talk about his life in Lothering. Fenris was frowning deeply, apparently knowing where this was leading. Even Anders was staring at Hawke with alarm in his eyes – Hawke had never told him this story. Hawke eyed the mage for a moment, and then resumed looking down at his hands.

"In the morning, at first light," he went on, "someone else from his band showed up to come with us. A woman who I only found out later was a mage. We hiked for half the day to the foot of a cliff, way out in the Wilds – farther from Lothering than I'd ever gone before by myself or with relative strangers. I asked him what we were hunting, but he wouldn't say. I had no idea what to expect. I knew I was taking a risk with these people, having only met one the night before and not knowing the woman at all. I don't think she ever said a word the entire time. But the man said he'd known what I was talking about, and the look in his eyes when he said it – I – I believed him."

Hawke took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. He was still staring at them, but he wasn't really seeing them. His eyes were distant, lost in memory.

"There was a cave a ways up the cliff. We had to climb the rock face to reach it. It was brutal, with a greatsword on my back and having just hiked for seven hours through trackless wilderness, but I did it. I was determined not to disappoint this stranger."

"What was in the cave?" Merrill asked in a hushed voice. She was staring at Hawke, wide-eyed, enthralled by his tale.

Hawke didn't immediately answer, so Fenris did for him.

"A dragon," he said darkly. Hawke nodded.

Merrill gasped. Varric's mouth fell open. Isabela looked confused for a moment, but then an expression of dawning realization crossed her face. Anders looked worried, Aveline appalled. Only Eingana displayed no reaction; she continued to watch Hawke steadily.

"There was a fairly large dragon in the cave," Hawke said. "When we reached the cave entrance, we rested there for a while, and I heard it roar. It wasn't a high dragon – the man said it was a mature male. He said it was what we had come to hunt."

Varric shook his head in disbelief.

"I asked him if he was crazy," Hawke said. "I was already worn out from the hike and the climb, and now he wanted to go fighting a mature dragon with just three people. The woman was a mage, but I didn't know that at the time. I was only seventeen, remember. I was okay with my sword, but far from seasoned. I wasn't even wearing armour."

Hawke scratched his neck, still avoiding making eye contact with anyone in the room.

"He told me that he was willing to teach me a powerful secret, one that would change me forever but that would let me reach my full potential. He said helping him kill the dragon was my test, and that he would prefer I didn't fail. He said he'd thought for sure I had what it took, and was I going to turn out to be a disappointment after all."

Hawke's fists clenched involuntarily and a scowl crossed his face. "I wasn't going to let him talk to me like that. I wanted that secret. I had no idea what it was – I knew it would be dangerous, but... I didn't care. It would make me powerful, that much I was sure of. It would make me like him, and I could _feel _the power he had. It was like a... a smell around him, but not an actual smell that you smell with your nose. It was more like a sensation, one that got stronger the closer to him you were. It made your skin tingle and your heart beat faster. I'd seen the way people avoided him at the tavern, out of fear, but I also saw that he didn't care at all what they thought or what they might do. Supreme confidence. Nothing fazed this man, nothing scared him. I didn't know what it was about him, but I knew I wanted what he had.

"We went into the cave. That was when I realized the woman was a mage – she had a walking stick with her, but it wasn't obviously a magical weapon until the tip started to glow to light our way. We walked for less than five minutes before we found the dragon. The man and I fought it – I had my sword, and he had the biggest axe I'd ever seen. The woman used magic on the dragon – made it kind of slow and stupid, so it was fairly easy for me to avoid its claws ripping open my hunting leathers. Its teeth weren't so easy to dodge – it got me on the arm a few times, nearly bit my hand right off. But... it was the weirdest thing. I don't know if it was because of the man so near me, or if the woman had done some magic on me and I hadn't felt it. But there was no pain at all. It just made me angrier. It made me want to fight even harder to kill the thing, and that's what I did.

"We fought the dragon for... I don't know... it took a long time to kill it. It felt like half the day, but it couldn't have been more than an hour. The man kept hacking at it with his axe and cutting off its claws one by one, and near the end he cut off its tail right near the root, made it scream like nothing else I've ever heard. The woman shot lightning at it whenever neither of us were in the way. I'd seen magic before... my father and sister were both apostates, but what she did was far beyond anything I'd seen either of them do. And she never spoke. The dragon got her a few times too – singed her pretty badly with fire at one point, and she never made a sound. Maybe she was mute, or something, but I got the impression more that she was perfectly capable of talking and just preferred not to. I was damn impressed with how she handled herself in that fight.

"And the man – it was like he was dancing, darting around that dragon, laughing at it, sometimes even letting it slash at him or dodging it a lot more narrowly than he had room for. He taunted it even as he sliced it open with his axe and got its blood all over him. It was beautiful, the way he fought.

"I went at its wings. They were completely shredded by the end. I stabbed it pretty good a couple of times – got my sword buried in its flank up to the hilt, but even that didn't kill it. Slowed it down quite a bit, and there was blood all over the place, but it kept at it. I slipped and nearly fell a few times, and if I had I would have been dead. Its teeth would have bitten off my head before I could get over the shock. And the man – we'd just about killed it when it smacked him hard with its head, thrashing about in its agony. Threw him against the wall and stunned him, and then it went for me.

"I just... reacted. I charged the dragon and I screamed at it, and I shoved my sword into its mouth as it was yawning open to breathe fire over me. It still got some out – burned my hands and arms black. I couldn't feel or move anything below my elbows, but I just kept shoving my sword forward. It came out the back of the dragon's head with a spray of blood. It was beyond exhilarating. It was... it was like euphoria. Like an... "

Hawke's voice trailed off. He didn't seem to want to say the word _orgasm. _Anders clearly understood what he meant, and so did Isabela, Eingana, and Fenris. The others were confused. Aveline had a revolted expression on her face, but she never looked away, listening carefully to everything Hawke said. Merrill had her hand over her mouth. Varric was looking around for something to write on.

"It was still twitching a bit, bleeding out, when the man came up beside me with a bottle. I have no idea where he'd been keeping it – maybe the woman had it. She was there too, and she healed my hands. I never even felt the pain of the burns.

"The man let some of the dragon's blood drip into the bottle, filled it up about halfway. Maybe a teacupful."

Hawke indicated his untouched cup of tea on the table before him.

"He gave it to the woman and she started... doing things to it. Adding bits of powder and herbs from pouches on her waist. The man congratulated me, said I'd passed my test. I'd never felt better in my life than that moment."

Hawke finally looked up, his face flushed with the emotion of the memory, his eyes alive. Anders noticed that his pupils were slightly dilated, but not dangerously so.

"I asked him if he would teach me the secret. He said he couldn't tell me what it was, he could only show me. I asked him to show me – demanded it, really, because I was so worked up and excited from the battle. He told me to be patient.

"The woman finished what she was doing and swirled the bottle around to mix whatever she'd put into the dragon's blood. Then she put it down on the floor of the cave and did something else to it – I don't know precisely what it was. She cut herself, used blood magic."

Fenris made a disgusted noise and rolled his eyes. Anders looked upset, but he didn't interrupt.

"The blood inside kind of... glowed after that. Not really glowed, but it – it sparkled, almost, not like it was giving off light, but like there was light shining on it that didn't reflect off of anything else. She gave it to me. The man just looked at me and waited – he didn't need to tell me what to do. I knew. I drank the blood. All of it."

Merrill now looked frightened, her hand frozen over her mouth as if she'd forgotten it was there. Aveline turned away; she seemed about to be sick.

Hawke's eyes drifted closed as he remembered. His voice was hushed, and they all leaned forward to hear what he said.

"It was... it was like... I can't describe it. It was the most amazing thing I've ever felt in my life, before or since. I could sense the entirety of my physical being – my whole body, every cell, every bone, every drop of blood. My heart was beating so fast I could hear it – I could _feel _it in my chest. And I could sense... I guess... kind of my inner self, as well. I knew who I was for the first time in my life. I saw where I'd been and how it had led me to that moment. I knew who I would become, what I still needed to do, where I still needed to go. Everything was clear, then.

"That was the moment _I _became a reaver."

Hawke opened his eyes and fell silent. The room was quiet and still. Hawke watched dust motes dancing in the sunlight flooding the room from the high windows and waited for the others to react.

"Hawke," Eingana began. Hawke looked at her. Nobody else was speaking or even paying much attention, still absorbing the impact of Hawke's tale. "This man – did he ever tell you his name?"

Hawke shook his head. "I never got around to asking him night before, and we didn't talk much on the way to the cave. On our way back to Lothering, he told me about how a reaver's power functions, how it affects a person physically and mentally. He told me he didn't think I would change, much, outside of my enhanced abilities during actual combat. By the time we got back it was well after dark and I was exhausted. I thanked him and stumbled back to my own house. I looked for him at the tavern in the morning, but the innkeeper said he and his party had left before dawn. I never found out who they were."

"What did he look like?" Eingana asked, her face and voice carefully neutral.

Hawke frowned in concentration. "Tall and muscular... reddish brown hair, thick beard. Deep voice. Charismatic. There was a scar on the left side of his face."

Eingana nodded as if she had expected this answer. "How did you get to talking in the first place, that night in the tavern?"

Michael Hawke looked at her with something the Warden-Commander had never expected to see in his eyes – fear. He was clearly wondering how she knew exactly what questions to ask.

"I... I liked how he smelled," Hawke muttered eventually, averting his eyes from the Warden-Commander's steady gaze. "Like blood and sweat. I... approached him. The smell... it turns me on. It always has, since long before I met him."

Eingana nodded again. "One more thing. Did he or anyone else happen to mention where they were heading? Or from where, or in which direction?"

Hawke rubbed his forehead and squinted, trying to remember. "Uhh... they'd come from Denerim, I think, and they were heading... west and south."

Eingana looked faintly troubled. She looked at the table, chewing her lip thoughtfully.

"Damn, Hawke," Varric said. "I never knew you were such a storyteller. That was _intense._"

Hawke looked at him sourly. "It's all true, Varric."

"I believe you," the dwarf said, "and that makes it even better. This is _gold. _You should be an orator."

"I don't know if I'm of the right temperament for public speaking."

"Well, leave it to me then," Varric said. "Can I use that? As an origin story, it suits you perfectly. More so than just because it actually _is_ your origin story. I doubt many will believe it, but it's too good a story to waste."

Hawke waved his hand indifferently. "Whatever."

Aveline suddenly looked stricken. Her hand went to cover her mouth.

"The high dragon," she said. "That story you told earlier. Did you-"

"Yes," Hawke said, cutting her off before she could finish.

Aveline looked sick. "This explains... much," she said faintly.

"You think I'm a threat to the city, don't you," Hawke said tonelessly.

Aveline eyed him. "I've thought that since you lost control earlier," she said. "Now I merely know a little more as to the reasons behind it. Not enough, though."

Hawke watched her with a mildly suspicious crease in his eyebrows.

"I'm not going to turn on you, Hawke," Aveline told him. "Not yet, anyway. We're still friends, of a strange occasionally hostile sort I never thought I'd have, but there it is. You've done a lot for me, and for Kirkwall, and I'd rather not see you... well, I'd rather not see this situation, whatever it is, end badly for you. Or anyone else. But you can rest assured that if you become dangerous and there is no other choice, I will kill you."

"You'll _try_, you mean," Hawke said dryly. Aveline sighed. Hawke looked at Eingana.

"Does that help any?" he asked. "Do you have any idea what might be wrong with me? I've always been able to control my bloodlust in battle, until a few months ago. I still can, most of the time, but sometimes I just – it's like I lose everything outside myself. I can't think rationally at all." He looked at the silent mage out of the corner of his eye. "Especially if Anders is with me."

"I do have some ideas, yes," Eingana said. She looked at Anders. "You said you also wrote to Wynne," she said. "Have you heard back from her, yet?"

"No," Anders said. "I'm getting a bit concerned, actually. Cumberland isn't _that _far away, and I sent the letter just days after Michael's first episode. She is, you know, getting on in years – I'm concerned she might have-"

"She's fine, don't worry," Eingana said. "I've been in touch with her – my enchantress at the Vigil is in regular contact with Cumberland _and_ Kinloch Hold, through means much more efficient than missives. Wynne has intimated to me that she may know what is causing Hawke's – er – condition. She is on her way here, in fact, and she should be arriving within the next few days."

Anders was startled. "Enchanter Wynne is coming here?" he asked.

"From Cumberland, you said?" Hawke added. "Is that really necessary?"

"Well, she would not elaborate on what she believed was behind your condition," Eingana said. "Not through her particular channel of communication – she believed it was unsafe to do so. She did, however, say that if her hypothesis was correct, it would require the intervention of a rather unusual sort of mage – herself, for instance, or Anders. Perhaps even both."

Hawke looked at Anders suspiciously, as did Varric and Aveline. But the mage looked bewildered.

"Why me?" he asked. "I mean... I'm possessed, yes, and in possession of my faculties – most of the time – and that does make me unusual, but what does that have to do with Wynne?"

Eingana's mouth opened slowly, and then closed. "She... never told you?" she asked.

Varric rubbed his forehead. "If this Enchanter you're talking about trusting and have invited here is also an abomination, I will be in some considerable distress."

"I as well," Aveline said. "That's rather a lofty position in the Circle hierarchy to entrust to an abomination of all things, isn't it?"

"She's not an abomination," Anders said defensively. "She's a good person, one of the kindest I've ever known, and a powerful mage. A healer of no common ability, much more skilled than I am. Practically everything I learned about restorative magic, I learned from Enchanter Wynne at the Circle Tower in Ferelden. She was always kind to me – she helped me avoid templar scrutiny more than once, though she never approved of my escape attempts."

He looked at Eingana with a pleading look in his eyes. "Please, tell me she isn't possessed," he said. "I... I don't think I could stand it if it turned out she was somehow manipulating me or something all that time."

"She wasn't!" Eingana exclaimed. "You're reading far too much into this. Wynne is exactly as you say she is – an extraordinarily kind-hearted and talented healer. But she's also... I don't even know what the term is, or if there is such a term to describe her condition. When she was a child, she met a spirit of faith in the Fade. It watched over her all her life, guiding her and helping her develop her ability with healing magic. When Uldred took over the Circle during the Blight, he sundered the Veil. Hundreds of demons came through and possessed many of the mages in the tower. Others forced their way into physical incarnation and attacked the templars and the surviving mages. Wynne was struck down in battle, defending another mage from a demon. She nearly died, but the spirit of faith intervened – it bonded itself to her and prevented her from dying. It's sustained her ever since. She thought she wouldn't live very long afterwards, especially given the Blight, but she regained much her strength, even more so after the archdemon was defeated. It's true that she will likely not live much longer – less than a year or two, I suspect. But she is not a danger, and I don't believe she is even truly possessed."

"She is possessed," Fenris said. "Whatever you want to call it, when a spirit 'bonds' with a mage, that is possession. She is an abomination."

Eingana shook her head. "That may be true in the basest possible definition of the word, but Wynne is anything but a monster. She is the best a mage can hope to be – respected and revered by mages and templars alike, beloved by normal people for the healing and compassion she provides without a thought for herself. She would be First Enchanter of the Circle at Kinloch Hold were she not serving at the College of Magi in Cumberland."

"She is lucky to have never gone through what I did," Anders said. "Justice is – was – a direct kind of spirit. In his native environment, thinking and acting are identical. He saw injustice and seethed to correct it, and when he merged with me, he was twisted by my anger into a spirit of Vengeance. I have heard of spirits of faith – they are calm and cool, soothing entities who value strength of will and reasoned conviction over religious fanaticism and fervour. I suspect a spirit of faith would be much less susceptible to distortion by its host's emotions than Justice proved to be. Additionally, Enchanter Wynne was, as far as I could tell, and apparently still is a genuinely warm-hearted individual. She has no darkness within her that might corrupt the spirit."

Fenris still looked dubious, but he shrugged. "If you are willing to trust this mage, it is your own head. But..." he glanced at Hawke. "For all our sakes, I hope you are right."

"Forgive me for asking, Warden-Commander," Varric said. "But if it is this Enchanter Wynne whose help we need, why _did _you come to Kirkwall?"

"I have business here, as I said," Eingana replied. "Among other things, I am here under orders from the First Warden himself to investigate the primeval thaig your expedition uncovered."

Varric was surprised. "Now _that _I was not expecting."

"Why is the First Warden interested in the ancient thaig?" Anders asked curiously.

Eingana gave him a sidelong look and didn't answer.

Anders held up his hands. "Right. Secret Warden business and you can't say."

"Not in front of the others," Eingana said. She looked apologetically at Hawke. "I'm sorry."

Hawke made an indifferent gesture.

"Nathaniel and Velanna are with me," Eingana said to Anders. "They are making preparations – I will have to leave to meet with them eventually, hopefully after Wynne arrives and some progress is made on helping Hawke. Sigrun is on her way as well, via the Deep Roads from Kal-Sharok."

"The _Deep Roads_?" Varric asked incredulously. "All the way from Kal-Sharok, infested with darkspawn and spiders and choked with cave-ins? That's insanity. Grey Warden or no, how is that any safer or more expedient than traveling above ground?"

"It is more expedient, certainly," Eingana said. "She has a route planned, scouted out beforehand to ensure it is passable. Sigrun is far from unfamiliar with the Deep Roads – she was a Legionnaire of the Dead before she joined us. And she does not travel alone. There are a number of Wardens and a dwarven contingent with her, and we have other allies."

Anders looked at her with an unreadable look on his face. Privately, Hawke burned to know just what sort of other "allies" the Grey Wardens had that weren't dwarves, but he knew better than to expect an answer.

"In any case, Sigrun's group will not arrive for some time," Eingana continued. "We may end up leaving Kirkwall without her and possibly meeting her in the Deep Roads before we proceed to the thaig. In the meantime, however, Wynne has requested that I be present when she arrives for her... erm... I suppose you could say her consultation." She nodded at Hawke.

"Pardon me for asking, but why is that?" Aveline asked. "Not that I doubt your ability, but clearly you are no mage."

"Mainly due to the experience I have fighting blood mages and – other things," Eingana said. She politely refrained from using the word _demons, _but all could hear the unspoken word hanging above the room like a thundercloud.

"How many blood mages have you fought?" Varric asked with interest.

Eingana touched her temple thoughtfully. "Oh... many," she said. "Denerim was positively _infested _with them at one point. Amaranthine was even worse – that's two cities' worth of underground blood mage societies right there. I also killed quite a few at Kinloch Hold during Uldred's coup... and the cultists in that remote mountain village I mentioned earlier – they were quite fond of blood magic."

"Do you think it likely that blood magic was involved in whatever is wrong with Hawke?" asked Fenris, surprising them all by breaking his characteristic moody silence.

"I..." Eingana seemed hesitant to answer. "Yes, I do. Again, though, I am no expert. I know a great deal about darkspawn and the type of magic they use – which is somewhat like blood magic, sometimes, but when Wynne arrives, her authority must be lent more credence than mine."

"And what, one wonders, could possibly be wrong with Hawke that it may only be reversed by a possessed mage?" Fenris said sharply.

Everyone turned to Eingana, waiting for her answer. Hawke's fists clenched involuntarily. He met Anders's eyes across the table and searched for some solace in them, but the mage only looked afraid.

Eingana spread her hands. "That is the question, isn't it."

"You said you had some ideas," Aveline said.

"I do," Eingana said reluctantly, after a pause. "They are just guesses, really. They are as likely to be wildly wrong as they are to be right."

"Still, I would like to hear them," Aveline pressed.

"I as well," Fenris agreed.

"And I," Hawke said, trying to sound firm. Only Anders could hear the tremor in his voice.

Eingana rubbed her forehead and took a deep breath.

"Well... it may just be the result of some malevolent spell you were infected with by the blood mage who killed your mother, and which interacted with your – your _reaverness_," she said haltingly. "If not that, then... demonic possession is not out of the question."

Merrill glanced at Hawke, unable to hide the fear in her eyes. Merrill, who dealt with freely with spirits and employed blood magic openly, was afraid of the very idea that he might be possessed.

Hawke felt shame twist in his gut, accompanied by a healthy dose of fear of his own. He had no desire to be a demon's plaything. But most of what he felt was what he had been expecting to feel, because it seemed these days he rarely felt anything else: churning, hot-blooded rage.

**Ω**


	10. Sundown

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Sundown"**

For a few moments, nobody seemed to know what to say. Hawke sat glaring at the teapot on the table, his usual capability to direct a smoldering stare at people until they quivered with fear having failed him rather often in the last few hours. He didn't want to look up and see the worry in Anders's eyes, or the fear in Merrill's. Or anyone else's.

Varric broke the silence with a mild cough. "Shit," he muttered. "Hawke possessed would be... at _least _as bad as a possessed mage. Worse, even."

"I agree," Aveline said gravely. "You may not be a magic user, Hawke, but you're just as dangerous. More so, in some ways."

"I'm so _flattered_ that you think so, Guard-Captain," Hawke said sarcastically. "How fortunate for you all, then, that when I erupt into an abomination and lay waste to Kirkwall, the templar hegemony will be ready and able to hack me apart."

Nobody answered him. Aveline looked slightly ashamed.

"All they'll need," Hawke went on, his voice dripping with biting irony, "is a friendly neighbourhood apostate to heal the wounds I carve into them. I won't even need my sword, I'll have gleaming razors growing right out of my hands. Anders – you'll be perfect. Here at last is a solution to the problem of mage oppression – all you needed was a common enemy! All we have to do is make sure I don't kill you before I go completely batshit and the city will be safe."

Eingana opened her mouth to speak, but Anders beat her to it. "Michael," he said reprovingly. "Stop."

Hawke threw up his hands. "Why?" he demanded. "Why wait? You're all in enough danger as it is. You'd be much better off killing me now while I'm in _possession_ of my faculties." He laughed bitterly at his own pun.

"Hawke, get a hold of yourself," Eingana said firmly. "I know you're upset, but please remember that we don't even know if you _are _possessed. I told you, I'm no expert in these matters and it's but a guess. There are any number of other explanations for your condition, many of which do not involve demons."

Hawke's face was twisted like there was a foul smell in his nose.

"Please," Eingana said. "Don't do anything rash until Wynne arrives. She will know what is wrong and what to do. I highly doubt you will need to be killed to be free from whatever is influencing you."

Hawke leaned forward and rubbed his face with his hands. He didn't agree, but nor did he argue.

"I, uh, should be going," Isabela piped up in the ensuing silence. She started to stand up.

"Yes, me too," Merrill said immediately. "Shall we walk together, Isabela?"

Isabela smiled at her. "Sure thing, Kitten."

Hawke pulled his hands away from his eyes but didn't look at either one of them as they moved towards him and the doorway to the common room. He looked up when he realized Merrill had stopped in front of him.

"It will be okay, Hawke," Merrill said with a brave attempt at a steady, reassuring voice. She hesitated, and then leaned down to hug Hawke.

Hawke was startled, but after a moment folded his arms around the young elf. His eyes closed, humbled at her support. "Thank you, Merrill," he mumbled.

Merrill nodded shyly as she stood up and slipped away. Isabela moved forward to hug Hawke too.

"Don't you do anything stupid," she whispered in his ear. "I don't believe you're possessed. You're much too handsome to become an abomination."

Hawke let out a bark of sarcastic laughter but squeezed the pirate gratefully. She straightened and winked at him before moving away. She paused and turned to the Warden-Commander.

"Will you be in Kirkwall long?" she asked.

"Oh, I expect we'll see each other again," Eingana said archly. "I've never gotten over that defeat in Denerim... I still want a rematch."

"You're on," Isabela said with a smirk. She patted Hawke on the shoulder, waved to Varric and Aveline, and winked at Fenris as she swept past him and away.

"I must leave as well," Fenris said. His mouth quirked a little. "You may be surprised to know this, but I do engage in other activities in Kirkwall aside from occasionally accompanying you on your escapades."

"I don't doubt it," Hawke said. "Stay safe, Fenris."

"And you as well. ...I hope you are not possessed, Hawke. I will check in with you in a few days."

Hawke nodded his thanks. Fenris inclined his head to the Warden-Commander and departed.

"I don't mean to reinforce the pattern of apparently fleeing from the possibly-possessed bloodthirsty warrior, but I have to go too," Varric said as he stood. "I have some business with the Merchants' Guild that I've been putting off for several weeks, and if I delay it any longer there is a strong possibility I will be assassinated. And I imagine Aveline has to update her men on the highwaymen we killed. And who the Tal-Vashoth killed. And the spiders."

"Succinctly stated," Aveline remarked.

"You don't need to make excuses, Varric," Hawke said coolly. "I understand perfectly well that you want to leave. It's not like there's much left to discuss. We all know what the situation is and what can now be done about it, which is wait for the enchanter to arrive."

Varric walked over to where Hawke sat and clapped him on the shoulder. "You're my friend, Hawke, and I don't want you to die in any way that involves demons, but not you dying gloriously in battle surrounded by hundreds of their sundered bodies. Anything else... well, it would be a tragedy, and I've invested rather heavily in you as a black comedy at this point."

Hawke couldn't help snickering at the dwarf's words. "You always know just what to say, Varric."

"I'm here whenever you need me, Hawke," Varric added. "You know where to find me."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

Aveline was smiling wanly behind the dwarf as he ambled forward, pausing to wait for her. She looked at Eingana.

"Warden-Commander," she said. "It's been an honour. Do you need accommodations? I can arrange quarters for you at the Viscount's Keep, if you like. There _would _be rather a lot of fawning nobles, I'm afraid, but the Hanged Man is not exactly... safe. Or clean."

"I haven't actually made arrangements yet," Eingana said.

"You can stay here, if you want," Hawke offered. "It's just Bodahn and Sandal here with me, and sometimes Anders. There are plenty of extra rooms." He refrained from commenting on the possibility that he might lose control and kill her in her sleep, which Eingana seemed to appreciate.

"I would like that," she said. "That's kind of you, Hawke. Thank you."

Hawke waved his hand dismissively. "You saved my homeland and the entire rest of the damn ungrateful world from the archdemon and its underlings. I was at Ostagar – I saw the bloody horde, and I saw what it did to Lothering. The least I can do for the Hero of Ferelden is give you a place to sleep where you won't be drooled on by the Marcher nobility. They are legendary sycophants."

Varric laughed. "He's got a point there," he said. "Damn – the Champion and the Warden-Commander in the same estate. I pity any burglars that might make the mistake of targeting this place. I suspect this sets a new record for most badass staying under one roof!"

Eingana chuckled good-naturedly. Hawke just rolled his eyes.

"Sleep well, Hawke," Aveline said, her face guarded. "For what it's worth, I'd be much less surprised to find that a demon had been possessed by _you_, and proved too frail of mind to survive the experience."

Varric laughed. Hawke looked at her, confused and not at all sure that that was supposed to be a compliment. "Uh... thanks, Aveline."

She smiled unexpectedly. "Can I come by tomorrow and take Reaver to the barracks? My recruits could use some exercise."

"Sure."

Aveline nodded her thanks. She and Varric left, leaving Anders, Eingana, and Hawke alone in the sitting room.

Hawke stood up and rolled his shoulders to work off the tension. He cracked his neck and looked up at the high window; the sun had sunk low enough that the shadows were above his head.

"Supper's at seventh bell," he told Eingana, who was watching him neutrally. "There's food in the larder, if you're hungry beforehand. I'll show you where it is, and I'll have Bodahn prepare a room for you as well."

The Warden-Commander nodded. "Thank you, Hawke." She stood and stretched. "I _would_ like to change out of my armour... I came right here as soon as I arrived. I haven't slept indoors in..." she smiled ruefully "quite some time."

"Take a hot bath," Hawke suggested.

"Oooh – that sounds wonderful. I think I'll do just that."

Hawke glanced at Anders as he was turning to leave the room. The mage was still sitting silently on the couch. He no longer looked panic-stricken at the thought of Hawke being possessed, but nor did he seem at ease.

"You staying here tonight, Anders?" Hawke asked, startling the mage from his reverie. Anders looked up.

"Yes, if it's alright," he said. "I... I'd like to be near you."

Hawke nodded without a word and gestured for Eingana to follow him. She smiled reassuringly at Anders before leaving the room on Hawke's heels. The mage took a deep breath, inhaling the cool, still air of the sitting room. Hawke's and Eingana's voices faded away as they climbed the stairs, and quiet descended. Shadows crept up around Anders. He sat there on the couch, thinking, for a long time.

**ασυνέχεια**

Later that night, long after the sun had vanished below Hightown's blocky skyline, Anders emerged from the cellar of the Hawke estate, having searched fruitlessly one last time for anywhere he might go next other than the Black Emporium. Deciding now was as good a time as any to ask Hawke about it, he ascended the stairs and headed for the master bedroom.

Anders entered Hawke's chamber to find the warrior standing in his smallclothes in front of a wall-mounted mirror, trimming his beard with a small pair of scissors. A stout candle remained lit on the dresser next to Hawke, bathing him in its warm glow, and the soft radiance of a lantern on the nightstand beside the bed illuminated the rest of the room. Anders paused at the door; all thoughts of the Black Emporium and its possible contents fleeing his mind as he drank in the sight of his lover.

_Demonic possession. _Anders couldn't stand the thought of it. What could possibly be done if that was really what was wrong? Nothing. Hawke was doomed. His bloodlust would overcome him and he would have to be killed.

It was no comfort that such a scenario made perfect sense as the missing link that completed Anders's theory. Hawke's reaver initiation that he had described earlier also made several somewhat disjointed pieces of the puzzle fall nicely into place. Anders had long suspected that Hawke had undergone some ritual to become a true reaver, but had never dared ask. Hawke had always reveled in combat, since the mage had first met him before the Deep Roads expedition years ago. It had always been rather _obvious_ during battle. Anders had burned with curiosity since the first time he had seen Hawke fight – defending him from templars in the Chantry by night, after Justice's outburst at his final meeting with Karl. But asking him about his bloodlust seemed... _improper_. Like prying, and with the possibility of provoking the warrior into defending his secrets with violence.

Since the discussion earlier, Anders had been trying to convince himself that other things might make his theory make sense as much as demonic possession did. He'd come up with a few flimsy ideas, but they weren't much comfort. He'd been avoiding thinking seriously about what might happen if the probable became the actual, and now it crept up on him like the inevitability of nightfall. What would he do, if Hawke _were_ possessed?

Anders watched Hawke trimming his beard, fingers and blades slipping along his face with the skill of years of practice. His muscles shifted under his skin, his eyes darting here and there in the mirror. He was as calm and in control as he'd ever been. He was the most beautiful creature Anders had ever seen, and every instinct, every nerve in his body, screamed at the mage to preserve him, protect him, heal him, and do whatever else it took to keep him as he was now, in this moment.

Anders closed his eyes. _Please, Maker, _he whispered in his mind. _Let it not be a demon. Let him be healthy, let him live free. I place myself at Your mercy. I am already possessed – I am already damned. Take me instead. Take me instead._

He felt a soft touch on his face, and when he opened his eyes Hawke was right in front of him, brushing away the tear that had slipped out.

"Michael," Anders breathed, managing to control his emotions.

"Anders." Hawke's eyes never left his, but his hands moved downwards, gently undoing the buckles of the mage's robe. "Relax. I'm fine."

That was the closest a man like Hawke was likely to come to words of comfort without prodding. The irony of Hawke consoling Anders, when it was he who was in such grave danger, was like a crushing weight on the mage's chest. He grabbed Hawke's arms and kissed him hard.

Hawke hadn't been expecting that, but after a moment he responded. His hands slid into Anders's loosened robe and around his back, warm and soothing on the mage's cool skin. Their tongues battled for dominance; Hawke playfully allowed Anders to gain to the upper hand for a moment, but quickly reasserted himself. His hands drifted up Anders's chest and over his shoulders, then moved down, helping Anders slip out of his robe.

Hawke's response to Anders's advance and his unexpected gentleness were like a balm on the mage's soul. He felt a warm glow of affection for Hawke. He broke the kiss and wrapped his arms around the warrior, hugging him tightly. He'd needed this closeness, he realized, for a long time. It felt good. He was elated that Hawke trusted himself around him – and conversely, that he trusted the mage around himself.

Hawke seemed to understand and just held him for a time. His thumb stroked his lover's back softly. Anders enjoyed the warmth of Hawke's body on his and felt inexplicably safe.

Presently Hawke helped Anders finish the process of removing his robe and guided him over to the bed, blowing out the candle on his way past it. He threw back the coverlet and pushed Anders down onto mattress. Anders remained sitting upright, looking up at Hawke. The intimate setting had reawakened many of his old desires – he wanted rather intensely to feel this man inside of him. Given the circumstances, however, that was a terribly unwise idea, and he had a feeling that Hawke would refuse.

"Lie down, you fool," Hawke said, pushing Anders to make room so he could climb into the bed as well. Anders shifted himself over and Hawke collapsed gratefully onto the sheets. He slid his legs under the thick quilt, but left it thrown back – the window was open, and the summer night was warm and dry.

Hawke made himself comfortable and looked over at Anders. He started laughing.

"What?" Anders asked, confused.

Hawke reached over and toyed a little with the metal ring in Anders's right nipple. "Why are these still here?" he asked. "I mean, not that I don't like it... it's sexy."

Anders smiled. "To be honest, I was in so much pain after... that time... I forgot they were there at first." He smile faded. "I healed myself rather indiscriminately. They started to itch the next day, and that was when I actually looked and noticed the rings were still there."

Anders couldn't really say _why_ he hadn't just removed the piercings. It seemed like a subtle act of submission on his part, leaving Hawke's marks of domination in place. It wasn't like they severely disfigured his body or prevented him from functioning. And Hawke thought they were sexy.

Hawke flipped the ring in his fingers up and down amusedly. It looked to have been attached securely and healed well, with no obvious scarring. "Isn't it... unsanitary?" he asked.

"Not with cleansing magic."

"You have a solution for everything," Hawke said with a soft smirk. He leaned over to fondle the other ring. He glanced up at Anders with a mischievous look in his eyes, and then slowly flicked the right piercing with his tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Anders exhaled softly at the sensation. He felt a thrill run along his skin, and a conveniently timed cool breeze drifting in through the window induced a delightful shiver. Goosebumps rose across his chest and up and down his arms.

Hawke's mouth drifted upwards, his tongue briefly working at Anders's nipple and then softly kissing his chest and the hollow of his throat. Anders ran his fingers through Hawke's thick hair, breathing deeply and inhaling his lover's scent. There was a faint hint of blood – Hawke was covered in it so often it seemed unlikely ever to go away – and an arousing tinge of his sweat, but the aroma was mostly the strange, exotic spiciness Anders still couldn't identify.

Hawke's mouth reached his throat, and he spent some time kissing Anders's neck, making the mage squirm with the subtle pleasure. There was already blood surging to his cock, stiffening against the fabric of his smallclothes. Anders's fingers clenched slightly, still buried in Hawke's hair. The warrior's lips and tongue on his throat were igniting his desires further, the sensations and closeness powerfully stimulating.

Hawke's right hand was still idly playing with the metal ring in Anders's left nipple. His mouth moved upward again, tracing light kisses along the mage's jaw to his ear. Anders felt a wet tongue exploring the planes and arches of his ear and shuddered his enjoyment.

"Michael... kiss me," he murmured. His eyes were closed, so he saw no movement, but he felt Hawke oblige him a moment later. He parted his lips to receive his lover's tongue. His left hand slid across Hawke's back, relishing the feel of the ripples of muscle, drifting down to squeeze his firm buttock.

Hawke moaned softly against Anders's lips and broke the kiss. He exhaled and rolled suddenly away, coming to rest on his back with no contact between them. His hand moved temptingly over the considerable bulge in his shorts, but with a visible effort of will he took it away and folded both his hands under his head.

"Michael..." Anders couldn't help his disappointment. He thought things had been going rather well. "What's the matter?"

Hawke opened his eyes. His pupils were slightly dilated.

"Anders," he muttered. He seemed to be trying to avoid looking at the mage. "This is... it's not safe. You know why. I shouldn't have done that."

"I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't." Anders reached out to run a finger through the dense patch of hair in Hawke's armpit. Hawke squirmed a little at the sensation and couldn't help smiling.

"Stop," he murmured, but Anders didn't stop and Hawke made no move to enforce his request.

Anders ran his fingers along Hawke's bicep, over the roundness of his shoulder muscle and across his chest. He traced lightly under Hawke's pectoral muscles, tweaked his nipples a little just to see the amusement on Hawke's face, and ran his fingers through the warrior's fine chest hair. It was rather sparse but for swirls around his nipples, and a healthy tuft in the middle of his sternum that continued as a fine trail down over the rippled armour of his abdomen to his groin.

Hawke's hand flashed out to grab Anders's wrist before his questing fingers could get any lower. Anders was startled; he'd never seen Hawke move so fast outside of a fight.

"Anders... don't," Hawke said, a hint of pleading in his voice. "I can't... I can't resist you for very long. You're not making this any easier for me."

"Why should I?" Anders whispered in Hawke's ear. "What's the danger? You're in control. You're fine. You're not slashing me up or howling like a demon out for my blood. We're just two men in a bed exploring their affection for one another." He kissed Hawke on his cheek.

Hawke frowned, his eyes half closed, and after a moment he released Anders's hand.

The bulge in his shorts hadn't subsided at all. Anders caressed it with his hand, cupping Hawke's confined member and squeezing it gently to stimulate further blood flow. Hawke groaned softly and shifted his hips, pushing against Anders's hand.

Anders continued to fondle him as he moved his head over to kiss Hawke again. He pulled away after only a moment, looking deeply into Hawke's eyes, inches from his own. The warrior's pupils were a little more dilated than they'd been a few minutes ago, but were still well within the limits of normal human physiology.

"I've never shown you my electricity trick, have I?" Anders asked, struck by sudden inspiration.

"What?" Hawke was baffled. "What in Andraste's name are you talking about?"

Anders trailed a series of kisses down Hawke's jaw, neck, and shoulder, breathing deeply to inhale the warrior's spicy scent from his beard. "Do you remember," he murmured between kisses, "once not long after we met... we were in Hightown, looking for a pair of boots for Bethany-"

"To replace the ones she'd lost in that swampy pit, where the slavers had taken Feynriel," Hawke finished. "Yes. And... oh... Isabela was with us, and she started talking about some whorehouse in Denerim – I think I remember you mentioning that."

"Trust me," Anders said. "You'll like this." He placed one finger of his left hand directly over Hawke's navel, and used his magic to induce a mild electrical current as he kissed Hawke on the shoulder to complete the connection.

"Whoa!" Hawke jerked beneath him, forcing Anders to pull his face back to avoid damage to his teeth.

"What do you think?" Anders asked, unable to keep the smirk out of his voice. "And that was only for a second."

"Do it again," Hawke said, his breath coming a little faster.

Anders splayed his left hand over Hawke's abdomen and slid it down over his hip. He ignited the current and closed his mouth over Hawke's nipple.

"Unnh!" Hawke arched his back, trembling at the unfamiliar, yet undeniably pleasurable sensation. It was the gentlest tingling, stimulating nerves all over his body in a euphony of touch. It reminded him powerfully of the hyper-aware experience he'd had after drinking the ritually prepared dragon's blood and becoming a reaver, years ago. Coupled with Anders's warm, wet mouth over his nipple, where the current left his body, it was exquisitely, intimately sexual.

"Ohhh," Hawke sighed, relaxing his tensed body as Anders lifted his head, cutting off the current. "_Damn_, man. Why have you never shown me that before?"

"I honestly don't know why I didn't think of it before now," Anders said. He trailed his hand across Hawke's chest, stimulating a minor current between the span of his first and second fingers and provoking a pleased growl from the warrior. He pushed himself upward with his other hand and straddled Hawke's waist. Hawke's hands explored up his sides and down his arms, their eyes locked together.

Anders reached down and took one of Hawke's hands in each of his. He spread their arms as he leaned down to kiss Hawke, creating a slightly more powerful current from each hand. Hawke moaned into his kiss and jerked beneath him as the electricity flickered between Anders's lips and one of his hands, and then the other, switching back and forth several times a second. Hawke's grip tightened around Anders's hands, and he squeezed back. Eventually Anders pulled his lips away, but rested his forehead against Hawke's. Both of them were panting, excited by the magical stimulation.

"You've been holding out on me," Hawke breathed. "I can't believe you've always been able to do that and I never knew until now."

"I'm a man of many talents."

"Yeah?" Hawke nipped at the mage's lips. "What other tricks have you been keeping hidden, huh?" His hands squeezed Anders's again, this time hard enough to be uncomfortable.

Anders sat upright, looking down at Hawke. His pupils had dilated further, and his breathing rate hadn't slowed. The scent of blood coming from him was growing stronger.

"Michael," Anders said. "Are you okay?"

Hawke blinked at him in confusion, then abruptly seemed to realize what was going on. He detached his hands from Anders's and covered his forehead with them. He closed his eyes.

"We... should really just go to sleep," Hawke said. "This is exactly what I was talking about. It's too dangerous." His eyes opened, and Anders felt a start of fear at the feral hunger in them. "As much as I would like to..."

Hawke seemed to be struggling with himself. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Can't," he whispered, more to himself than to Anders. "Can't lose control."

Anders chewed his lip, wondering if there was any way he could be intimate with Hawke without setting him off. He hadn't yet mentioned to Hawke that his "electricity trick" could also be used as a defensive weapon – if Hawke got too aggressive, Anders could shock him powerfully enough to stun him briefly, but not enough to cause any permanent harm. He wondered if Hawke would agree to such a safety measure.

He wondered if he would be rational enough to use it. If he was honest with himself, Anders had also had trouble remaining "in control" – once Hawke started to punish him, he couldn't help the twisted enjoyment he got out of it. Just as inflicting pain was a turn-on for the warrior, receiving pain was a turn-on for Anders.

"Michael," Anders said, coming to a decision. Hawke opened his eyes and looked at him. His pupils had contracted slightly, and his breathing was more even.

"Relax," Anders said. "Just... lie back, and enjoy yourself. Don't think about blood or battle. This is just me, pleasuring you, because I want to and I like doing it. Stay in control, and if you lose it, I'll defend myself, I swear."

Hawke looked at him steadily for several moments.

"You sure?" he said eventually. "You sure _you _can stay in control, too?"

Anders averted his eyes. Hawke was far from stupid, and it had been foolish to think he wouldn't realize the same thing Anders himself had.

"I promise I will," Anders said, and this time he resolved to keep his word.

Hawke nodded and took a deep breath.

Anders shifted himself downwards, running his fingers down over Hawke's chest and abdomen but refraining from stimulating electrical current just yet. He reached the waistband of Hawke's shorts and tugged downwards. Hawke lifted his hips to help him remove the smallclothes, and his cock sprang upwards, trailing a pearly strand of pre-ejaculate.

His erection had softened somewhat during their conversation, but Anders had soon gently stroked it back to an impressive stiffness. Hawke watched him, hands back behind his head and motionless as Anders curved one hand under his scrotum and caressed it. He ran his tongue up the shaft of Hawke's cock, and the warrior let out a pleased exhalation through his nose.

Anders swirled his tongue around the head and ran it back down the other side of the shaft. With his free hand he stroked it slowly, enjoying the sensation of the skin beneath his fingertips sliding over the hard flesh.

Hawke's eyes had drifted closed again. He let out a soft, appreciative moan. One of his hands moved down to rest gently on Anders's head, running his fingers through the mage's hair. Anders finally closed his mouth over the engorged head of Hawke's member. He pushed forward, taking more of Hawke's length into his mouth. As he advanced, he worked the shaft with his tongue.

Hawke was clearly enjoying himself. He moved his other hand down to get a grip on both sides of Anders's head. He started to thrust his hips gently upwards, pushing his cock into Anders's throat.

"Ooh... that's good," he mumbled. "Very good. Yes."

Anders bobbed his head up and down, still washing his tongue over the shaft as best he could with it filling most of his mouth. He worked on suppressing his gag reflex, getting Hawke's thick shaft deeper into his throat with each thrust.

After a few minutes of practice, during which Hawke groaned his pleasure a great deal but refrained from forcing himself down the mage's throat before he was ready, Anders managed it. He pushed himself all the way downwards, groaning softly around the swollen dick filling his mouth and throat. He breathed carefully through his nose, inhaling the heady scent of male sweat and body from Hawke's pubic hair.

"Maker," Hawke sighed. "That's... fucking... _excellent_... ohh, yeah." He gyrated his hips, moving his cock around in Ander's mouth even as it was buried up to his balls.

Anders pulled off and went back down, starting a slow but steady rhythm, working his tongue across Hawke's shaft on each pass. The warrior threw his head back, and his moan became a growl of pleasure. He thrust his hips upward to meet Anders's mouth, his grip tightening on the mage's head.

Anders reached up to caress Hawke's nipples with his thumbs. As Hawke was thrusting up into his mouth, Anders ignited a powerful current, just barely weak enough not to be painful.

"Nnnnnhh!" Hawke cried out his pleasure, arching his back and pushing his cock as deep as it could go into Anders's mouth. "Maker's _breath_! Oh, fuck... ohhh, wow." Hawke was gasping for breath, his entire body trembling at the magical stimulation. "You are one talented cocksucker, Anders... talented. _Yes_. Mmm."

Anders cut off the current, and Hawke let out a disappointed whine. Anders waited a few seconds, not wanting to cause his lover any damage, and resumed his stimulation. Hawke cried out again, loosing a string of colourful and occasionally blasphemous grunting.

Anders ceased his stimulation and pulled his mouth off Hawke's cock. He ran his lips and tongue up and down the shaft, taking some much-needed breaths. Hawke took his cock in his hand and smacked it against Anders's mouth a few times, letting out a few amused snickers.

"Such a good boy," he breathed. Anders looked up at him as he went down on Hawke's cock again, smiling alluringly. He froze.

Hawke's eyes were wide open and completely black. They were dark, empty pits, barely reflecting any of the dim light cast by the lantern beside him.

Anders felt a pulse of fear resound through him. Hawke didn't appear to have lost control, but when else did his eyes ever look like that? It definitely wasn't natural, and was almost certainly connected to whatever had altered his bloodlust. For a few frightening heartbeats, Anders wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake and pushed Hawke too far, and if the warrior was moments from snapping into a rage of bloodlust and uncontrolled desire.

But Hawke didn't even seem aware of his own hyper-excited state. He pushed Anders's head down onto his cock, but it was with the clumsy, lustful impatience of a man near his climax, not the rough, violent assault Anders had endured before.

"Come on," Hawke breathed. "Don't stop, do it again... I'm so close, keep going."

The pleading in his voice sounded entirely normal. Anders supposed there was no harm in continuing. Perhaps he would mention Hawke's changed eyes to him later, see what he remembered. There existed the possibility that the warrior would retain some potentially useful insight – clearly, the alteration in his bloodlust had a sexual element, but as to what relation it had to the violence, Anders could only guess.

And now was not the time. He went at Hawke's cock with gusto, running his tongue over and around the shaft, relishing the uneven planes of its thick, veiny girth. He tickled Hawke under his balls and, feeling them start to contract, ignited a strong electrical current from his hand on Hawke's chest.

"Fuck, yes!" Hawke yelled, jerking under Anders's hand and pumping himself upwards into the mage's mouth in a desperate, eager rhythm. "Ohhh, Maker, yes... I'm coming... unnnh, fuck!"

He erupted in Anders's mouth, his balls clenching, muscles spasming, heat washing over him, the electricity running through him making hair all over his body stand on end. His hands fell to his sides as he rode the wave, panting and gasping for breath.

Anders kept at it as long as he could, but the flood of spunk into his throat eventually forced him to pull back or choke. He ran his tongue around the throbbing head, collecting Hawke's spent semen. At the same time, he gradually reduced the intensity of his electrical current.

"Swallow it," Hawke groaned. "Fucking swallow it, mage."

Anders obeyed. His magical stimulation faded and presently ceased.

"Oh, yeah..."

Hawke was slick with sweat, still breathing hard. Anders looked up at him carefully. His eyes were still black, but his grossly enlarged pupils were rapidly contracting back to their normal size.

"Maker," Hawke gasped. "Oh, Maker, that was... wow. That was..."

Anders smirked. He didn't want to congratulate himself too heartily just yet, but it seemed like they'd done it. He'd gotten Hawke off without him losing control.

"Incredible," Hawke finished, unable to find a better word. "You talented, talented man."

Anders's smirk became a genuine smile as he climbed up Hawke's body to kiss him. Hawke moaned into his mouth, his hands moving up to explore the mage's back and finger his hair. Their tongues intertwined, and their kiss was loving and affectionate.

Eventually Anders rolled off Hawke to lie next to him. He wanted to say how proud he was of Hawke that he hadn't lost control, but he couldn't seem to find the words. He was still not sure what had happened – it appeared that Hawke superficially _had _lost control, but his behaviour hadn't reflected the physiological change. It was something he needed to think about.

Hawke's hand was roving over Anders's body, creeping downwards.

Anders smiled. "What are you doing?"

"I want to return the favour," Hawke said huskily. Anders looked at him. His pupils were still highly dilated, but at least the natural deep green of his irises could now be seen around them.

"You were incredible," Hawke said again. "I... I want to give you the same thing. Though I can't make electricity between my hands or anything... I still know how to please a man."

Anders was sorely tempted, but he was also exhausted and a little wary of pushing Hawke any further. He had no idea if being on the other end of their act of intimacy would set Hawke off, but he was willing to wait until the morning to try, at least. It had been rather a long day.

"I'm okay," he said, smiling reassuringly when Hawke frowned. "I have just as much fun getting you off as I do getting off myself, you know. It can wait until tomorrow... no need to tempt fate."

Hawke seemed to realize what he meant and nodded. He gave Anders's cock a squeeze through his smallclothes anyway, squirmed a little on the sheets to make himself more comfortable, and leaned over to extinguish the lantern.

Hawke turned onto his side and wrapped his arms around Anders. The mage snuggled himself closer to Hawke, resting his head on Hawke's shoulder and enjoying their closeness, the warmth of Hawke's body, the smell of his sweat. He was closer to true happiness than he'd been in a long time, and he felt a welcome surge of confidence that Hawke's bizarre condition could be fixed, demon or no. Wynne would know what to do, he was sure of it. They would be okay.

Hawke squeezed him, and Anders squeezed back. The cool breeze whispered through the room, and Hawke pulled a single thin sheet over them. The night was so warm that the sheet was enough to keep them comfortable.

As Anders drifted towards unconsciousness, his mind turned to the future. If they did succeed in correcting whatever was wrong with Hawke... what would happen then? Certainly all involved would be changed by the ordeal – but for better or worse remained to be seen.

"Michael," Anders murmured.

"Mmm."

"What do you think will happen to us?" Anders whispered.

Hawke didn't answer for a while. The room was silent but for the faintest rustling of the curtains fluttering and the occasional distant call of some local wildlife.

Anders was beginning to think Hawke had fallen asleep when he spoke.

"You want to know what I think will happen?" he asked.

Anders nodded against Hawke's shoulder.

"Very likely... I'll turn into an abomination."

Anders started to protest, but Hawke continued speaking. "I'll go on a rampage and slaughter much of the Kirkwall nobility. The templars will surround me in the Keep and kill me at great cost of human life. Justice will fly into a passionate rage, take over your body, and storm the Gallows, where he'll be summarily defeated and executed. The stress of the ordeal will force Meredith to finally profess her undying love for the First Enchanter."

Anders stirred. "_Michael_-"

"They'll embrace passionately," Hawke cut him off. "Orsino will requite her feelings and admit that his rage at her was really the only way he could deal with his own stormy, confusing emotions. She'll tell him she has no choice but to implement the Tranquil Solution, and he'll tearfully understand. He'll live out his days as her emotionless secretary and boytoy. Tevinter will be overthrown and mages will become extinct, solving the problem of oppression, ending the threat of blood magic and demonic possession forever, and ushering in a new Golden Age of peace and prosperity throughout all of Thedas. And you and I – our story will be highly distorted by Varric and the passage of time. We'll be revered as the heroes who made it all happen, our noble sacrifices remembered forever and taught to children as shining examples of courage and selflessness."

"Michael, that is _not _funny."

"I was being completely serious."

Anders sighed. Just when he'd been so optimistic, Hawke's bitterness had resurged with a vengeance. He made an effort not to blame his lover; he was the one with the ruinous unknown ailment, after all.

"Alright, not completely," Hawke said after Anders's silence indicated that nothing more was forthcoming from the mage. "I'm sorry. Some of that was – a bit tasteless. Well, most of it. What were you expecting me to say? I have no idea what will happen, Anders."

He paused. Anders blinked in the soft moonlight, thinking.

"I'm afraid," Hawke whispered, so softly that Anders barely heard him. "I... I don't want to become an abomination."

"Join the club," Anders said bitterly, unable to bring himself to offer the comfort he really should have. "Though it's too late for me, of course."

Hawke didn't respond for a moment. Then he said in a quiet, serious voice, "Now I know."

"Know what?"

"What it's like to know that... _that._.. might be your fate. I think I might understand you a little more, now."

Anders closed his eyes to hold back tears as a rush of powerful emotion surged through him. He squeezed Hawke and was reassured when Hawke squeezed him back.

"We'll get through this, Michael," Anders said softly. He shifted position. "You will not become an abomination. I'll make sure of that. I swear to you, I won't let it happen."

"Thank you," Hawke mumbled. "Thank you for... protecting me. From myself."

Anders stroked Hawke's chest softly, affectionately.

"I'm sorry for everything I've done to you," Hawke added in a bare whisper.

"Don't apologize," Anders murmured, drifting away as sleep overcame him. "You never have to apologize to me. I'm yours, remember."

"Mine. Mmm. And I'm... yours."

Anders, sinking gratefully into soft, warm darkness, barely heard him.

**ασυνέχεια**

Hours into the night, Anders entered a strange, lucid dream.

He seemed to be falling through a surreal environment of sepia-toned clouds, but there was no sensation of gravity or movement. He could easily have been rocketing upwards or hurtling along any random vector.

Anders knew he couldn't possibly be awake in these kinds of surroundings, so he reasoned that he was in the Fade. The surrounding cloudscape was filled with wondrous arches and swirls of puffy shapes, but the only section of it with any detail was what he looked at directly.

In any case, it was difficult to concentrate on the cloudscape. Four silky ribbons were wound around him; they extended backwards, or upwards, or behind him, as far as he could see, and they seemed to fall infinitely forward as well. One was a bright, intense yellow; one a rich green; one a deep, satisfying blue; and the last was a vivid and passionate red.

The ribbons slid easily over his body as he progressed. He noticed then that he was naked; the blue ribbon slipped over his left leg, the green over his right. The yellow caressed his left arm as he plummeted, the smooth _whirr _of its passage over his skin a pleasant accompaniment to the cool, gentle whisper of its touch.

The red ribbon flowed around his neck and over his chest. It was the widest, and felt the smoothest. Its shiny surface wasn't cool, but comfortingly warm.

Two more ribbons of distant energy curved in a vast helical tunnel around his vector, but they were so far away as to be visible only as sparkling lines of not-cloud. They were only infrequently noticeable at all.

Anders had never had a dream like this that he could remember, nor had he ever encountered any such landscape or phenomena in the Fade before. It was bizarre and unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome. The sensations were pleasant, the sound pleasing, and the scenery beautiful. He fell gradually into a dim half-aware state, drifting along with the ribbons wherever they took him and simply enjoying the dream.

Abruptly, it changed. The yellow ribbon ended with a flit of noise, gone from his arm. He looked up in time to see it vanishing rapidly into the distance. Before he could process what had happened, Anders emerged from the clouds and his surroundings changed dramatically.

He was now unquestionably plummeting downwards in the open air. He seemed to be several miles up, above a turbulent ocean; he could see a great distance, and the coast near the horizon looked hauntingly familiar. Anders was certain that this area of the Fade replicated Kirkwall and its surrounding environs. Opposite the coast, in the remote, hazy distance, was the outline of the Black City.

The green ribbon ended, and a moment later the blue did as well. Only the red continued to flow like a river of blood over and around him. Its smooth passage was still warm, but it was no longer entirely comfortable; rather it seemed to be generating more heat with the friction of its flow.

Anders looked around and saw that he was surrounded by spirits. They were swirling in a maelstrom about him, few of them of defined shape but all unquestionably watching him with interest. Voices echoing across the Fadescape reached him, apparently from the spirits. They were much farther away than they appeared. Farther out still, the glittering helix had become wildly erratic, surging in and outwards as if it was trying to get to him, but was rebuffed constantly.

_We are distraction made flesh._

What? Anders tried to say. His voice only sounded faint and hollow, like the sound was only returning to him through banks of fog.

_Away from this, always in peripheral, another mind – untethered._

The ribbon was becoming hot over his chest as he continued to fall, but he was so far above the ocean below that he barely seemed to have moved. He tried to get a hand underneath it to lift it away from his body.

_His form, shattered._

Anders looked down, trying to see if the ribbon ended anywhere below as the other three had, but as far as he could tell it extended all the way to the distant, storm-tossed surface of the ocean.

_Does an afterthought prove the gods when direct action is long missing?_

The heat was becoming bearable, no longer burning his chest with the friction of its passing, but the ribbon had seemingly become twisted against him; its edge was digging painfully into his side. Racing past him at this speed, the ribbon could very well slice him fairly deeply.

_Stay focused, _the spirits whispered. Or was there only one spirit, divided into many reflections of the same self?

_Whims escape to their own action._

Unexpectedly, the ribbon suddenly billowed out into a vast, fluttering plain of fabric. It wrapped Anders completely in its gossamer folds, and he lost sight of the spirit or spirits, the ocean, the coast. Even as he fell into the shroud, the edge of the field of cloth, impossibly, continued to cut into his side, more deeply and painfully than before.

Then Anders felt warmth on his lips – a kiss. The brilliant scarlet all around him was darkening to black. Pinpricks of light bloomed all around him – stars. He was falling into the night.

He could see nothing. The invisible kiss became more insistent, and Anders responded unconsciously.

Then, abruptly, he was awake, lying in bed at the Hawke estate. Hawke was leaning over him, nuzzling his neck, his beard bristling against Anders's cheek. He couldn't see Hawke's face.

"Michael?" Anders said groggily, unsure of the source of his sudden fear, or why his heartbeat was accelerating.

Hawke lifted his head to look at him, and the moonlight fell across his face. His eyes were black. None of the watery radiance from the full moon reflected off his eyes – they were yawning voids, and Anders recoiled in fear from the terrifying sensation that he was being pulled into them.

The pain in his side hadn't abated. He glanced down and saw the knife clutched in Hawke's hand, the long, bleeding gash he had scored.

"I love you," Hawke whispered to him, and though Anders had ached to hear those words for a very long time, he had never wanted them like this.

"Michael," he breathed, his heart racing painfully, trying not to twitch at the burning sting of the wound in his side. "What are you doing?"

"We're going to finish what you started earlier," Hawke murmured, and leaned down to sink his teeth into Ander's ear.

**Ω**


	11. Indestructible

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Indestructible"**

Anders flinched and cried out in pain as Hawke bit his ear savagely, harder than he ever had before. He felt warm blood flowing down his neck, and he whimpered again as he tried unsuccessfully to push Hawke off him. It hurt, a _lot_, and there was no pleasure in it.

"Oh, I know," Hawke said breathily, misinterpreting the noise Anders had made. He raised his head to loom inches from Anders's face. His mouth was dark with blood. "Isn't it... isn't it... ah, what is the word I search for..."

Anders didn't answer him. Tears spilled from his eyes, not just from physical pain but emotional torment as well. What had gone wrong? How had Hawke lost himself so thoroughly? They had been so close, earlier. So warm in each other's arms. So _normal._

"Glorious," Hawke groaned, and kissed him. He forced his tongue into Anders's mouth, and the mage tasted his own blood. He felt Hawke pressing the knife into his side again, beginning a new wound.

This is my fault, Anders thought. I thought I could be with him, if we were just careful and I didn't push him too far – but I was wrong. He's gone over the edge. Will I ever get him back? Will I survive long enough to try?

"Michael," Anders gasped as soon as Hawke released him from the kiss. "What happened? Come back to me."

"I'm fine, Anders. I'm right here." Hawke nosed around Ander's face, nipping painfully at his skin here and there. "I'm in complete control of myself."

"No, Michael, you're really not," Anders said. "You've lost control. We made so much progress earlier tonight. Don't you remember?"

"I remember," Hawke crooned in his ear. "I remember every exquisite detail... you were so wonderful." He ran his tongue across the cut he'd just made and shivered with delight. "You are so good to me... so loving, so affectionate, so... _understanding_... You understand everything. You accept me as I am – nobody's ever done that before. Not even... I don't deserve a man like you, Anders."

"What?" Anders was bewildered and agonized by Hawke's words. "Michael, don't you see what you're doing? This is not you. You're acting exactly the way you've been trying your hardest _not _to for months!"

"Bullshit," Hawke said. "I'm pleasing you. Don't deny it." He paused over Anders's neck, just below his jaw. He kissed there, and the dual sensations of the warrior's lips and tongue and the blade sliding along Anders's arm produced a strange and unwelcome thrill. He suppressed his desires as best he could – enjoy it he might, but only to a point, and he had made a promise to Hawke he intended to keep.

"No," Anders murmured. "Stop."

"We _can_ be together, Anders," Hawke said softly against his neck. "I haven't lost control. I'm not assaulting you. I'm not savagely using your body for my own enjoyment. This is all for you." He reached down and started a new cut up Anders's thigh.

"You're hurting me, Michael!" Anders cried, choking back a sob.

"Anders, relax," Hawke said soothingly. "Just lie back and enjoy yourself, alright? This is me, pleasuring you, because I want to and I like doing it."

Anders's own words from earlier echoed back to him now were like bitter claws in his heart. He tried again to shove Hawke off him, but the muscular warrior wouldn't budge.

"I _know_ you like it like this," Hawke whispered to him, grazing his teeth along the mage's jaw. He smiled, but where Anders usually felt joy seeing Michael Hawke smile, his dark, empty eyes inspired only heartsick terror. "You don't need to be ashamed. This will be good for both of us." He leaned down to bite Anders's shoulder, one hand squeezing the mage's bicep in tandem. His other hand roved with the knife blade over Anders's skin, searching for a new place to wound.

"Michael," Anders said tearfully, "I know what you'd want me to do if you were still _you_." He began to gather magical power in his hands, preparing to deliver a powerful jolt. "I swore I'd defend myself if you lost control. Please, just stop. I don't want to hurt you."

Hawke laughed affectionately. "You can't hurt me, Anders."

He kissed Anders on his neck again, this time without adding the knife, and Anders had to fight back a surge of his own want. Hawke smelled so _good_ – his spicy, sweaty, bloody scent was like an intense aphrodisiac. And he was so beautiful, muscles limned in the moonlight, his features half shadowed by the planes of his face. Even the shadowy pits of his eyes were strangely alluring, drawing him in, promising ecstasy...

Anders forced himself to muster his willpower and remain focused. He clung to the energy building in his palms and fingers that had begun to dissipate, pulling it back.

"You're not well, Michael," he said softly. "You're forgetting something rather important. I... I just hope you forgive me for this later."

"What?" Hawke raised his head and looked at him, frowning.

Anders touched Hawke on both sides of his chest and induced an intense electric current, shocking the warrior painfully. Hawke convulsed, groaning in pain, and collapsed on top of Anders; the mage was barely able to push Hawke's dead weight off him and roll away, off the bed. He staggered to his feet and made for the door.

"Fucking mage," Hawke snarled. He recovered far faster than Anders would have thought possible. Anders had just enough time to close his hand over the door's latch before Hawke slammed into him from behind, forcing him against the door and keeping it closed with his weight. Anders let out a gasp as the air was forced painfully from his lungs.

"You bastard_,_" Hawke growled in Anders's ear. The affection was utterly gone from his voice, replaced by cold anger. "You treacherous little _shit_. You were right – silly me. You never told me your 'electricity trick' could be ramped up that hard, did you? Sneaky, sneaky mage. But I won't make that mistake again."

He grabbed Anders's wrists and forced them behind his back, crushing them painfully together with one hand. His other arm came up to curl around Anders's throat, constricting his airway.

"Should have realized," Hawke said as Anders struggled to free himself and gasped for breath. His tongue flicked out to probe Anders's mangled ear. "Should never have forgotten – you're a Maker-damned abomination. You can't even accept love and physical intimacy from another man without twisting it into something as rotten and corrupted as you. Thank you for reminding me, Anders."

Hawke shoved him hard against the door, but Anders continued to fight him weakly, his head pounding and vision blurring from lack of oxygen. He felt Hawke's arm sliding along his neck, saw the blade in his hand glinting in the moonlight inches from his face.

"You want twisted? You'll _get_ twisted," Hawke murmured. "Time for your punishment, maleficar." He bent his head to chew on the thin, sensitive skin over Anders's collarbone. "Don't try to pretend you don't want it. You know you deserve it, and this time I'm not going to be gentle."

He started to drag him back towards the bed. Anders, on the verge of passing out, scrounged up the dregs of his willpower and forced himself to cast a desperate spell.

A wave of force burst from his body, flinging Hawke back against the bed with a crash. The house itself seemed to shake with the force of the omnidirectional shockwave; the mirror cracked, and several other items in the room were tossed about or knocked over.

Anders, gasping for breath, heard Hawke groan in pain. He was deeply relieved he hadn't killed him, but he was also aware that he needed to get out of there fast, before the warrior recovered. His wrists and neck ached, and the various cuts all over his body still stung, but his vision was clearing and he was breathing easier. He lurched towards the door, managed to wrest it open, and fled the room.

He came to a panting halt against the balustrade on the mezzanine, overlooking the common room. Where could he possibly go? Hawke would be on his feet and after him again in moments. He needed help. He needed his staff.

Anders started for the stairs, intending to retrieve his weapon from where it leaned against the wall next the writing desk. A voice stopped him.

"Anders?"

He looked around. It was the Warden-Commander, emerging from her room across the mezzanine. Though her hair was tousled and unbound, her eyes were focused and alert. She was dressed in a pale green shift with a faded emblem of the Denerim alienage on it, but the gentle domestic image was rather ruined by the iridescent magic of the longsword in her left hand.

"What in the name of Andraste's flaming ass is going on? I heard raised voices, and then the whole house shook."

"Commander," Anders said, eyes flicking towards the door to Hawke's chamber, expecting the enraged warrior to charge through it at any moment. "We have a serious problem." He couldn't help being relieved that the formidable elven woman was awake – he had nearly forgotten she was there at all. But the last thing he wanted was to expose her to Hawke's wrath.

"Hawke's lost it?" she guessed.

"I am, in fact, perilously close to losing my temper," Hawke said from the doorway of his chamber. "If that happens, the situation may become... _unpleasant_."

The side of his face sported a nasty bruise, and a trickle of blood dripped down from under his hairline. His eyes were unnaturally wide and still totally black. His teeth were bared in an animalistic snarl, his chin and lower lip still covered in drying blood from Anders's ear. He was still dressed only in his shorts, but his knife had been joined by a second, larger dagger in his other hand, wickedly curved and sinuous like a snake. Anders had never seen it before, and couldn't help wondering where Hawke had had it hidden.

Eingana whistled. "Damn, Anders," she said appreciatively. "He is one gorgeous hunk of man-flesh you've scored." She tilted her head. "For a shem, anyway."

"Not _now, _Eingana," Anders hissed at her, backing away as Hawke started to advance on him.

"Warden-Commander," Hawke said in an even tone. "This is a private matter. You need not concern yourself with this... lover's quarrel. Please return to your bed."

"Oh, I don't think I can do that, Champion," Eingana said, stepping into Hawke's path to Anders. Hawke paused.

"Eingana," he said, starting to breathe faster, his voice growing dangerous. His eyes seemed to be flicking back and forth between the elf and the mage, but with no visible pupil, iris, or sclera – only blackness – it was difficult to tell. "I will not warn you again. I do not want to hurt you. If you involve yourself, this will only end badly for you."

"You have no idea how many permutations of that same threat I've heard over the years," Eingana said. She looked over her shoulder at Anders. "Get your staff, mage!"

Anders nodded and scampered the rest of the way to the stairs as Hawke bellowed his fury and charged the Warden-Commander. She barely deflected his dagger, twisting agilely to one side to avoid the knife in his off-hand.

Clashes of metal on metal resounded behind and above him as Anders descended the stairs. He leapt from the last few risers and snatched his staff from where it leaned against the wall. He heard a noise behind him and whirled, for a moment gripped by a terrible fear that Hawke had killed Eingana already and had darted, with his inhuman swiftness, down the stairs for him.

It wasn't Hawke, however – it was Sandal, holding a glowing enchanted stone. He looked up at Anders with his usual blank, innocent expression.

"Hallo," he said.

"Sandal," Anders whispered urgently, glancing up to the mezzanine. He saw flashing blades, glimpses of Hawke's reddish-brown hair and a flutter of Eingana's shift. Everything else was obscured by shadows. "What are doing awake?"

"Bathroom."

"You have to hide," Anders urged. "It's not safe here. Go wake your father and tell him to-"

As it turned out, it was too late for that. "Master Anders?" Bodahn's voice reached him from the sitting room with approaching glow of the lantern the dwarf was no doubt carrying. "What's the matter?"

Anders cursed. His eyes went from the whirling knife battle going on upstairs to Sandal, still standing in front of him and watching him with his wide blue eyes.

"Bodahn," Anders whispered as the dwarf entered the room. Bodahn looked with concern up the stairs, his eyes widening at the echoing _clang _of blades meeting in combat, accompanied by grunts of exertion from Eingana and furious growls from Hawke.

"You... uh... has Hawke or anyone talked to you about his... problem?" Anders asked, keenly aware of the urgency and absurdity of the situation. There _really_ wasn't time to be explaining the complicated magical/possibly demonic alterations in Hawke's behaviour to Bodahn when said alterations were posing a serious and immediate threat to their lives.

"He mentioned something, many months ago," Bodahn said a little nervously. He didn't seem to want to specify what exactly Hawke had said. "He told me it was nothing to worry about, and that you were looking into it."

"Well, it's become something to worry about," Anders said. He felt a hysterical urge to laugh at the understatement. "You and Sandal need to get out of here. Hide in the cellars, or better yet, leave the estate."

"I cannot do that, Messere," Bodahn said. "I have sworn to-"

Both of them winced at a crash from above; Hawke had slammed Eingana into the balustrade, nearly cracking the wooden railing and forcing his curved dagger against her neck.

"Anders!" Eingana choked out, barely managing to keep Hawke's blade from slicing open her throat. "If you feel like stepping in – _now _would be good!"

"If you won't leave, at least get yourselves somewhere safe!" Anders ordered the dwarf, and without waiting for a response hurried back up the stairs.

Hawke glanced at him, his frown becoming a snarl. Eingana took advantage of his suddenly divided attention to shove Hawke hard against his shoulders, freeing herself from his pinning weight. Hawke stumbled backwards but recovered his balance quickly; Eingana darted out from under him before he could reestablish his hold on her. Instead, he went for Anders with a fierce battle cry.

Anders spun his staff, trying to raise an energy barrier to ward off Hawke's charge, but the warrior had closed the distance so quickly that he never had time to finish the brief spell. His staff deflected Hawke's dagger thrust seemingly by chance alone; Anders leapt backwards to avoid the knife slashing at his throat. Panicking, he pounded his staff against the floor, inscribing his oft-practiced emerald paralysis glyph.

The magic snaked up Hawke's legs, freezing them in place, but the glyph flickered before the ensnaring tendrils had gotten higher than Hawke's knees.

Hawke roared at him as Anders scrambled away, and his voice was resonant with something distinctly inhuman, of a far different plane. He twisted, lashing out with his knife, trying to tug his legs free of the binding magic.

Anders, startled and terrified, backed against a wall as he raised his staff with trembling hands to point it at Hawke. He had mastered the paralysis glyph many years ago. He'd never seen anybody, not even magic-resistant dwarves, fail to succumb completely to the emerald bonds.

"Anders," Eingana said, circling around Hawke as he continued to struggle. "Have you lost your-"

"_No_," Anders cut her off angrily. "He's... become resistant to magic, or something! I shocked him in the bedroom, and it should have stunned him for at least a _few_ seconds longer than it did... What could possibly..."

A voice in his mind whispered _demon._ He steadfastly ignored it.

"What do you think we should we do?" the Warden-Commander asked, keeping her eyes on Hawke as she neared Anders. Hawke wrestled his leg free of the magical glyph even as its magic snatched for him. Anders hastily invoked a second glyph right next to the first; Hawke's freed leg fell right into it, and the paralysis crept up to his mid-thighs. He bellowed in frustration and hurled his dagger at Eingana's head; her sword flashed up, faster than Anders would have thought possible, and deflected the missile. She snatched it up from the floor before it could skitter away, holding it in her right hand.

"I think," Anders said in answer to Eingana's question, "we should knock him out. While he's not a threat I can weave a magical confinement that he'll have a lot more trouble breaking."

"How are we supposed to knock him out if he's resistant to your magic?"

"The old fashioned way," Anders said. "But be careful not to damage his brain. And try not to cut him – the more wounded he is, the more dangerous he gets."

"Brilliant," Eingana said sarcastically. "That makes this _so _much easier."

Hawke had given up struggling and was standing with his chest heaving, glaring at the two of them, his knife still clutched in his right hand. The green bands of magic keeping him trapped in the two overlapping glyphs were slowly receding down his legs.

Anders tapped his staff on the floor, reigniting the fading magic in the glyphs, but though their drain slowed considerably, the magic did not creep any higher.

Eingana began to circle carefully around Hawke, inching closer to him as she did so, but carefully staying out of the range of his knife and watching him closely for any sign he might try to throw it. Hawke's head turned with her, watching her just as intently, apparently judging her to be a greater threat than Anders.

Anders took the opportunity to examine Hawke closely, looking for wounds. Eingana appeared to have inflicted a number of superficial lacerations during their earlier fight. Perhaps if he healed them...

Anders's eyes fell on a long scratch along Hawke's muscular arm, and his eyes widened at what he saw. The air above the cut was _wavering. _Tiny threads of translucent red energy undulated up from the cleanly sliced skin, fading away less than an inch from Hawke's body. Anders ran his eyes quickly over the warrior's body, feeling a creeping fear when he saw the same strange effect over each of Hawke's injuries. It was as if the damage to his body was leaking magic as well as blood. What, by the Maker, was _that_? Yet another new manifestation of... whatever it was.

Anders ran through a litany of swearing under his breath as he tried to work out a way to end this peacefully without anyone being killed or seriously injured. If they rendered Hawke unconscious, he would be himself when he woke up... wouldn't he?

A thread of panic shot through Anders at the thought that Hawke might already be permanently lost. He had been asleep when Hawke had seemingly spontaneously lost control. He'd already gone over the edge once earlier that day, fighting the spiders, forgetting what had occurred during his rage. And again during their intimacy, except Hawke had apparently been fine. All this after months of perfect control... what had gone wrong?

_I_ did this, Anders couldn't help thinking. He cursed his own weakness – he should never have seduced Hawke last night.

What if it _was _a demon? Then the chances of saving him from it were next to nothing. Anders refused to believe that.

But what _else_ could it possibly be?

_I've unleashed it_, he thought bitterly, _and now it will consume us both... my Hawke, my love... not to mention Eingana and Maker knows how many others before he's stopped_. Anders shook his head, choking back his tears, determined to fix this, whatever it took. He would save Michael Hawke if it killed him.

Eingana suddenly leapt forward, engaging Hawke with her longsword, face creased in concentration. Even armed with only the small knife and having to fight twisted to one side with his legs paralyzed, Hawke effectively fended her off. He made several grabs for his dagger that Eingana still held and occasionally feinted with, but she narrowly managed to hold onto it every time. She seemed to be trying to get the knife away from him rather than slashing his skin, as she likely easily could. Anders was grateful that she was doing as he'd asked, but his worry for her safety ratcheted up – she clearly hadn't been exaggerating when she indicated the difficulty of the task with her sarcastic comment.

Anders began to work a new spell, weaving magic of distortion around Eingana to make her able to move much faster than Hawke could. Before he could finish, however, Hawke let out a thunderous shout. Anders felt the otherworldly resonance in his chest interfering with his magic, making him stutter and spit over the words and his gesturing hands twitch in discomfort. The floor seemed to tremble, and the paralysis magic, still slowly sinking around Hawke's knees, suddenly failed all at once. The glyphs disappeared and Hawke lunged, palming the startled Warden-Commander in her chest hard enough to send her flying backwards.

Hawke stalked after her, pulling his knife arm back, preparing to strike. Panicking, knowing that Eingana was likely stunned by the blow and protected by nothing but a paper-thin shift, Anders rushed forward. He barely thought about what he was doing. Magic surged along the length of his staff as he struck Hawke across his back; the pent-up energy discharged into the warrior at the moment of impact.

Hawke's limbs seized and he fell to his knees with a strangled cry. His knife slipped from nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. Eingana, breathing hard and dizzy from hitting the floor, shoved herself backwards away from him.

Mind racing, Anders quickly decided to try a more direct, powerful spell of paralysis. He gathered the requisite magical forces and reached out with his staff to touch Hawke and complete the spell.

His staff crystal, glittering with the prepared entropic energy, was less than an inch from Hawke's back when the warrior sprang upwards, spreading his arms with a demonic howl and releasing a thundering sphere of crimson force. The shockwave washed over Anders and flung him backwards, igniting every nerve in his body with searing pain. He screamed as his staff was torn from his fingers.

The impacts against the far wall and then the floor were worse; he briefly lost the world in a dizzying blur of magical pain and a terrifying, crushing inability to breathe. Anders thrashed, flailing limbs searching for his staff or something to hold onto, anything. _Breathe, _was all he could think. _I need to breathe._

Eventually the burning in his chest subsided and the shrieking agony all over his body faded, but he still ached everywhere and his breaths were short and pained. As the world came back into focus, Anders heard the renewed clashing of metal on metal. Had Eingana engaged Hawke once again?

Anders blinked away the pounding in his head and trained his eyes on a bizarre sight. Hawke, snarling savagely, was indeed fighting again – he'd picked up Eingana's longsword. His opponent, however, was not the Warden-Commander, but Bodahn.

The dwarf was defending himself, absurdly, with a long poker taken from the fireplace. Anders had never known the dwarf to take part in any kind of combat whatsoever, but amazingly, Bodahn was managing to hold his own, or at least had Hawke's full attention and hadn't yet been killed.

Bodahn noticed Anders stirring and called out to him. "Run, Messere! Get away from here – I will hold him!"

Eingana groaned behind him, and he added, "Milady Commander – I suggest you find something rather more modest to wear! That shift will not protect you from cold steel!" He ducked under the enchanted longsword as Hawke swung it at his neck.

Anders staggered to his feet, seeing Eingana doing the same on the other side of the unexpected battle going on in the middle of the mezzanine. He registered what Bodahn had said and looked down – he himself was still dressed only in his smallclothes, and he continued to bleed from the wounds Hawke had inflicted earlier. Finding something more protective to wear sounded like a good plan.

He rushed into Hawke's chamber as fast as his aching body could carry him and snatched up his robe from where it lay draped over the wooden chair at Hawke's desk. Not wanting to be cornered if Bodahn's desperate distraction failed, Anders fled the room without taking the time to put on his robe. He could do that when he was safe.

An idea struck him. How to communicate it to Bodahn, though, without also alerting Hawke? There was no way. But he couldn't just abandon the dwarf to Hawke's mad bloodlust.

He descended the stairs as rapidly as he could; at the bottom he struggled into his robe, eschewing a few of the less important straps and buckles. He looked up anxiously at the mezzanine – Hawke was growling, the otherworldly tremor increasingly overpowering his natural human voice, but the continuing clashes indicated that Bodahn fought on.

Eingana joined him at the bottom of the stairs, hastily buckling on her leathers and light plate. Several knives and daggers adorned the belt at her waist, but only one of the large sheaths carried a sword, the other having been taken by Hawke.

"Bodahn saved both our lives," she panted.

"I know," Anders said. "We can't just leave him. But what can we do? It's like every spell I cast against Hawke builds up his resistance to my magic. And – he has magic of his own! What in the Void was that spell he did?"

"I have no idea, but we have to think of something, fast," Eingana said. "Where's his hound?"

Anders cursed fluently. "Why didn't I think of that? Reaver!" he called, looking around for the Mabari hound.

There was no immediate response, but if the dog was asleep, it might take him a few seconds to get up and reach them from elsewhere in the mansion. Anders called again, and moment later the dog appeared in a doorway.

"Thank the Maker," Anders breathed. He looked at the Warden-Commander. "What's your plan?"

"I was thinking of sending him to get Hawke's friends – Merrill's Dalish, right? She must know some of the old magic. We need help."

"Good idea," Anders said. He knelt down and put his hands on either side of Reaver's head. The dog looked at him questioningly.

"Reaver," Anders whispered, "go find the others. Okay? Can you do that for me, boy? This is very, very important. Wake them up – bite them if you have to, but not too hard. Bring them here. Start with Merrill."

Reaver woofed and tried to lick the mage's face. Anders instinctively recoiled – he was a cat person at his core. But he'd seen the dog respond to Hawke the same way, and so he grudgingly allowed the dog's wet tongue to slather his cheek.

"Thank you, Reaver," Anders said. The dog barked softly and charged off through the antechamber.

"How does he open the door?" Eingana asked as Anders wiped his cheek on the sleeve of his robe.

"I have no idea. Is this the time?"

"No," Eingana agreed. She looked up. Hawke had driven Bodahn across the mezzanine, and the dwarf was mere steps from the edge of the stairs.

"What do you think?" she whispered.

"I thought if we lured him into the cellar," Anders muttered back. "I have a number of magical defenses set up down there – if we made him cross one of them and I cast at the same time, I think I could knock him out. That's assuming by the time we get there he isn't completely immune to all magic and he hasn't leveled the mansion with whatever power he has."

"I think I can make it happen," Eingana said. "Where's the most likely trap you have set up?"

Anders outlined a path down the stairs, past the warren of chambers and the vault immediately below them, into the cellars that eventually connected through a maze of dusty rooms and narrow corridors to a passage near his clinic in Darktown. One of the largest of those rooms, and nearest the mansion, was where he had set up his laboratory for his experiments with blood magic. A few turns down a hallway before that room was his most powerful magical ward.

"Alright," Eingana said after Anders had described to her how to get there. "Go down there and reinforce it. Make it stronger, add whatever else you can think of that might penetrate his resistance, add new traps or relocate old ones – anything that might give us the edge we need. I'll lure him down there, and get him to cross the trap. If that doesn't work – well, hopefully we've got reinforcements coming."

Anders nodded and took a deep breath. "Good luck," he said, and gave Eingana a quick hug.

She squeezed him once, reassuringly, then pushed him towards the cellar door. "Go."

Anders took a last look up the stairs at the raging juggernaut his beloved had become, forced himself not to give in to despair, and ran for the cellar. He descended into the stale darkness, wondering if he would see the Warden-Commander or the estate's dwarven manservant alive again. He couldn't contemplate the possibility that Hawke might be lost to him. Hope was all he had – without it, he would be undone.

**ασυνέχεια**

Some time later, Anders wove the last finishing touches with his staff into the completed trap ward. Exhausted, but glad he'd finished it before Eingana and Hawke arrived, he stood back, leaning on his staff, probing with his magical senses to examine his work.

He had removed everything from the trap that was invariably lethal – the last thing he wanted was to kill Hawke. He had originally designed the ward with templars in mind, taking into account their penchant for annulling hostile magic. He had worked on it for months, weaving its magical threads together in an unnecessarily complex and labyrinthine way which theoretically would make it harder to annul. Anders hoped this feature would enable to the trap to more easily penetrate Hawke's acquired resistance to magical attack. He had also amped up the spell to make it considerably more powerful, and drastically reduced the time interval between its staggered bursts. The resulting trap ward, which he would arm once Eingana had passed over the invisible trigger glyph and hopefully before Hawke followed her, was strong enough to render an entire charging qunari warband deeply unconscious before it needed to be reset.

Ideally, the spell would do no permanent damage to Hawke's mind or physical brain, but if it succeeded to the best possible extent Hawke would only wake up when magical intervention was employed to remove some of the webs the trap would cast over his mind. Anders could only hope his rather intense overkill would be enough to drop Hawke in his maddened, elevated state.

There was nothing left to do but wait. Anders sank to a tired crouching position against the wall of the dusty corridor. The long passage was illuminated by a few torches and little else; it was essentially indistinguishable from much of the maze of corridors honeycombing the depths of Kirkwall that the cellars of the Hawke estate dissolved into. Hawke claimed to have explored the passages connected to his mansion thoroughly, and sealed all but the one hidden entrance that Anders knew about in Darktown. Anders was certain that the corridor he was in was the only route between the rooms behind and ahead of him; there was no way Hawke could circle around behind him and take him by surprise. To do that, he would have to go down to Darktown and come back up from the other direction. At least, such was Anders's hope.

He waited for a few more minutes, wondering how long he should delay before going to ensure that Eingana and Bodahn were okay. He had left them less than thirty minutes ago. He didn't dare hope that Hawke had come down from his crazed battle fervour and they merely hadn't reached him with the news yet.

A shuffle behind him made Anders leap to his feet, staff poised and ready. Who could be _behind _him? Unless he was wrong about there being no other way around and Hawke _had_ actually snuck up on him-

Anders lowered his staff and exhaled in relief. For the second time, he'd been startled and terrified by Bodahn's son, Sandal. The quiet savant had appeared from an alcove a little ways down the hallway, having apparently been hiding there.

"Hallo," Sandal said, seeing Anders looking at him.

"Hello, Sandal," Anders said. "Are you alright?"

Sandal smiled at him but didn't answer. Anders took that as a yes.

"Did your father tell you to hide down here?" he asked as Sandal approached him, stopping a few feet away. The dwarf nodded.

"Do you know why?" Anders continued, and Sandal's smile faded.

"Master is angry," he said sadly.

Anders sighed and rubbed his forehead. "No kidding."

"Angry master makes you sad," Sandal observed. Anders looked up at him. His crystal blue eyes were bright and honest, his expression sympathetic. Anders felt a rush of affection for the slow-witted dwarf.

"Yes," he said softly. "I am sad. Michael is... very ill."

Sandal looked confused. He tilted his head.

"There's something wrong with him," Anders elaborated. "He's – he's sick." Why was he trying to explain this, of all things, to Sandal, of all people? "He's not normally like this. Something's changed inside him to make him... this angry."

"Not sick," Sandal said.

Anders looked at him. His first thought was that Sandal was trying to reassure him and really had no idea what he was talking about. Then some pieces of information in his mind, fractured by stress, reunited, and Anders gave the matter more thought. Sandal's ability with enchantment was, as far as he knew, unique. He knew of no other living being – dwarven smith, mage, Tranquil or otherwise, or anything else – who could do what Sandal could do with lyrium. Might he possibly know something else, something that pertained to Hawke's condition, but was simply unable to meaningfully communicate his knowledge?

Anders felt a sudden rush of excitement, but he forced it down. He mustn't get his hopes up. Still, why not ask?

"Sandal," Anders said with quiet seriousness, "do you know what's wrong with Michael? Do you know why he... becomes dangerous, like he is now? Is it..." His voice dropped further, thick with emotion, and Sandal leaned in to hear him. "Is it a demon?"

Sandal shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. "No," he said, and continued shaking his head as if for emphasis.

Not a demon, Anders thought. How could Sandal possibly know that? But it was something. Sandal was far from ordinary. Perhaps there were things he knew, or things he _saw_, that others did not – or _could_ not. It was a reason to hope, at least. A terribly flimsy reason, but more than he'd had before.

Anders reached out and took the dwarf's hand. "Thank you, Sandal," he said, choking back an unexpected rush of tears. "I'm so glad that Hawke isn't possessed."

But what did that leave? Blood magic? What could have possibly been done to Hawke to give him magic of his own, like he'd displayed upstairs?

"Poss... essed," Sandal repeated slowly. He looked down at his hand in Anders's.

"Taken hold of by a demon," Anders explained. "A creature from the Fade, the world of spirits beyond this world."

"Possessed." Sandal nodded, looking at Anders as if providing an answer to a question he'd been asked.

Anders was confused. "Michael _is _possessed?"

Sandal nodded again, smiling, clearly glad to have been understood.

"But not by a demon." Sandal nodded again.

Anders rubbed his forehead, resisting the urge to shake Sandal and demand an explanation. That wouldn't get him anywhere and would likely just terrify the dwarf.

"How can Michael be possessed if not by a demon?" Anders asked, trying to sound patient. The moment he said it, he felt like an idiot. He _himself_ was possessed, and not by a demon.

Anders's mouth fell open. Could it be...?

Sandal's eyes were wide and he started to back away.

"What's the matter?" Anders asked, concerned. He pushed himself to his feet. Surely it wasn't his question that had frightened the dwarf.

Sandal continued to back away, raising his arm to point. Anders whirled around, the words forming on his lips to arm the trap ward.

The corridor was empty.

Anders glanced back at Sandal. The dwarf had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. Anders was alone.

He didn't _feel_ alone, though. He watched the shadows at the end of the corridor intently, straining his eyes for any movement. His heartbeat sped up, adrenaline seeping into his veins in anticipation.

Noise – shuffling footsteps. A quiet grunt of pain. A shape appeared in the darkness – too short to be either Hawke or Eingana. The figure moved forward, into the pool of torchlight.

It was Bodahn. One eye was bruised and swollen shut, and he was limping, the left pant leg of his nightclothes dark with blood. He was holding his arm across his stomach, which also appeared to be wounded.

"Bodahn!" Anders called out in concern, starting forward. The dwarf looked up and relief washed across his face.

"Master Anders," he said, still shuffling forward as best he could on his wounded leg. "Thank goodness you're alright. I bring a message from the Warden-Commander – she's leading Master Hawke towards your trap – they will be here at any moment."

Anders rushed forward to help the injured dwarven manservant, gathering healing magic along the length of his staff as he did so. He made sure to accumulate rather more power than was strictly necessary to heal Bodahn's wounds, to account for the inherent resistance to magic possessed by all dwarves.

He reached Bodahn, who took his offered hand gratefully, and brought his staff down in an arc. Soft blue light washed over the dwarf, knitting his wounds together and restoring some of the blood he'd lost.

"Oh... wonderful, that's wonderful!" Bodahn said gratefully. "Thank you, Messere. Thank you so much!"

"Come on," Anders said, urging the newly restored dwarf onwards. "We need to get to the other end of the corridor before-"

A crash behind him finished his sentence for him, and Anders and Bodahn both broke out into a run.

"Hurry!" Anders gasped. "Alright – we're past the trigger glyph – keep going. Sandal's hiding back here somewhere, I just saw him-"

"You did?" Bodahn asked urgently. "Please, messere, is he safe?"

"He's perfectly fine, Bodahn, but hiding again – wise boy, you should follow his example. _Go_!"

Bodahn needed no further urging. He hurried off down the corridor, checking various alcoves along the way, searching for his son.

Anders turned around in time to see Eingana lurch into view, dragging her longsword, barely keeping hold of it with weak, bloodstained fingers. Her face and arms were bloody, her armour heavily damaged.

"Anders," she gasped. "Act-activate–"

She never finished her sentence, thrown forward from behind. Hawke stepped into view, carrying Eingana's enchanted longsword and one of her daggers. He still wore only his shorts, but his arms, chest, and face were adorned with a number of new slashes and wounds. Anders's mouth opened in horror.

Red fingers of energy drifted away from Hawke's skin, everywhere. Some of them radiated away like bizarre, magical plant life sprouting from his pores; most, however, curled back around his limbs, undulating open and closed and drifting through flesh and bone as if they weren't there at all. His whole body shimmered with buzzing crimson force – it was like looking at a magically constructed image of a man while the man himself stood right behind, visible through it. Anders had never seen anything like it in his life.

He met Hawke's eyes, and he immediately staggered forward, vertigo sweeping over him like a sickness. Hawke's eyes seemed to draw his gaze towards them, and it was extraordinarily difficult to look away.

And they were no longer entirely black. New "pupils" had appeared – glints of red light, sparkling like the reflections on a piece of polished obsidian. And in the very center, stars of colourless, incandescent brilliance – windows into the Fade, or beyond. It was at once the most achingly beautiful and perfectly terrifying thing Anders had ever laid eyes on.

Hawke stepped over Eingana's prone body. She made a feeble effort to push herself upwards; Hawke paused and reached out with his bare foot, touching it to the back of Eingana's neck. Her body seized, gripped by a crimson aura, and she was still.

Hawke's mouth opened and a voice that was not his spoke through it.

"Anders," he said. "There you are at last, my love. Why are you hiding down here in the cellar?"

The voice was eerily resonant, androgynous, and utterly inhuman – but nor did it sound like a demon.

Anders had never been more terrified in his life, and the one thought that kept spiraling through his breaking mind was _Enchanter Wynne is on her way. She'll know what this is. She'll fix it. She'll know what this is. She'll fix it._

Hands shaking, Anders gestured with his staff and mouthed the words to arm the trap ward. He doubted it would work, but it was his only hope. He backed away from where the glyph would trigger, his eyes never leaving the creature his beloved Michael Hawke had become.

"Stop," Hawke said, and Anders halted unsteadily, against his will. Hawke advanced slowly.

"What are you?" Anders whispered hoarsely, fear making his throat clench. His mouth was dry, his tongue like cardboard.

"We are everything and nothing," Hawke said. His voice echoed down the hallway, coming at Anders from every direction. The mage felt its thrum in his chest. "We are always and never, eternal and instantaneous, everywhere and nowhere. We are you, maleficar, and you are us."

"No riddles," Anders said as forcefully as he could. "Tell me what manner of spirit you are."

"Intensity," Hawke said. His expression was like stone, blank and neutral. He continued to advance. Anders eyed his progress – a few more steps, and he would cross the trigger glyph.

"Indestructible," Hawke continued. "Transfinitude. Boundlessness."

"There are no such spirits," Anders cried. "I say again, creature, tell me what you are – tell me in a way I will understand."

"We are limitless," Hawke's voice boomed around him, under him and behind him. "We are the horizon. We are indestructible."

You'd better be lying, Anders said to himself. If you can be destroyed, I will destroy you.

But how could he destroy it without killing Hawke?

Struck by a sudden idea, Anders reached out with his staff just as Hawke's foot was falling towards the trigger glyph. Desperately, hoping to complete his spell before the trap ward activated, Anders cast with every last dreg of mana he had in him.

He succeeded. In the instant before the trap ward activated, azure fire swirled upwards around Hawke, closing all his wounds in the blink of an eye. Hawke paused, startled. He blinked. His foot hit the glyph.

Light exploded around him. Anders threw up a trembling arm to shield his eyes. A ferocious ringing noise boomed along the corridor in both directions, as if a bell the size of the mansion had let out a thunderous knell. The walls shook; dust fell from the ceiling. Hawke became invisible, lost in the glare.

Anders was stunned into momentary incoherence. He had made the ward powerful, but not _that _powerful. He had no time to consider what might have happened. As the turbulent energies washed over him, his awareness expanded outwards exponentially with the wave of light, racing along patterns and conduits built into the city itself.

For a few wondrous, transcendental moments, Anders knew the entire city of Kirkwall intimately. Every building, every brick, every chamber, every hidden corridor, every nook and cranny, every particle of dust was within the limits of his awareness. He _was _Kirkwall, and he watched in awe as the bright white river of power he had unleashed spread throughout a network of ancient channels, filling them and sending spears of radiance into the sky, lightening with dawn.

Anders saw, with his hyper-inflated consciousness, the grand logic behind the original Tevinter magisters' designs for the layout of Kirkwall. Streets and alleys formed the shapes of runes, symbols of amplification, gathering, accumulation, storage, _power_. Channels ran along and under streets to funnel sacrificial blood to a vast central pit, now lost and forgotten in the city's bowels, sealed by cave-ins, more recent construction, and the passage of time – the growth of the new, obscuring the old. Only one passage still connected to that empty place, once the heart of the city.

The entirety of the city was designed to render the Veil thin and intensify magical power. Anders saw, then, what had happened: the trigger glyph for his trap was directly aligned with a ley line, an axis of power, one of the city's main arteries along which energy flowed. Some of these ancient channels still crept with dregs of old, forgotten magic. Activating the glyph right atop this node, in this corridor of this cellar in this city, Anders saw, could have produced nothing less than the eruption of magic that had rocketed his awareness to these heights.

But how could that have possibly happened? How was it that a node of an ancient magical superweapon just happened to retain some dregs of magic, and how was it that Anders's trigger glyph had just happened to fall right along it? Was it fate? Chance? Was there any way, really, to know such things?

All this took place in an instant. His perception of time slowed to near-stasis by the enormity of his mind, it felt like much longer to Anders, but in reality a bare instant passed as he experienced the startling epiphany before he shriveled and receded back into himself. His awareness sank, his perception dwindled, and he was left standing, miraculously upright, in the corridor in the cellar of the Hawke estate. Most of what he had seen he instantly forgot, but he grasped dimly that his glyph had somehow brought all the residual might of the ancient city of Kirkwall to bear against the creature who had taken Michael Hawke from him.

Anders rubbed his head and eyes, trying to clear the ringing from his ears and the spots from his vision. As his sight cleared, he blinked rapidly, trying to make out what had happened. He had hoped his last-second healing of Hawke might have some positive effect on containing the demon, or whatever it was – superficial injuries seemed to agitate the entity's energy and stir it into further activity.

It appeared he had been somewhat successful, though the ward, amplified as intensely as it had been by the city's magic, hadn't quite worked as he had thought it would. Hawke was suspended in mid air, his arms out straight at his sides, his whole body shimmering with curves of white light; the red energy had disappeared. Eingana's enchanted longsword was embedded in the wall next to him above head height.

Anders crept closer, examining Hawke closely. The warrior's eyes were closed, so he couldn't tell if they were still otherworldly black. He probed the containment field with his magical senses; it responded solidly.

Satisfied that Hawke was safely confined and alive, Anders rushed down the corridor to check on Eingana. To his intense relief, she was already stirring before he reached her; he was unsure what affect Hawke's magical attack had had.

"Commander," Anders said as he reached her. "Are you alright?"

Eingana groaned and rolled onto her back. She was wounded in several places. Anders quickly ran his hands down her body, deploying restorative magic. He was near exhaustion, head pounding and heart beating rapidly, but his brief ascent to embodying the city of Kirkwall had left enough mana within him to heal the Warden-Commander.

"Anders," she muttered. "Is he..."

"Hawke is contained," Anders said. "How do you feel? Do you know what he did to you?"

"No. I know it hurt a lot, though." Eingana reached up to rub her forehead. The gash that had decorated it a moment ago was gone, leaving only a faint scar. "That's... much better, though. Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Anders said as he helped the elf to her feet. He turned her around to carefully examine the spot on her neck where Hawke's magic had touched her.

"There appears to be no lasting superficial damage," Anders said. "We'll have to wait and see if there are any further ill effects."

"Right." Eingana took her hand away from her face and looked to where Hawke was suspended and frozen. "Was that... supposed to happen?"

"Not exactly," Anders said. Eingana started towards Hawke, and Anders kept pace with her. "I think my trigger glyph was aligned with some kind of magical axis once used by the ancient Tevinters who built Kirkwall. There was a great deal of stored magic left over in their old lines of power – it amplified the spell beyond anything I thought would happen."

"I think I felt that," Eingana said. "It shook the whole city."

"I wouldn't be surprised."

As if her words had provoked a confirmation, a tremor ran along the ground under their feet. Anders and Eingana stumbled, grabbing the wall to remain upright. The whole corridor shook, rustling more dust from the ceiling.

"I think the spell might have dislodged a bit more than a few dregs of ancient magic," Anders said unnecessarily. Another tremor made them both briefly lurch to one side before regaining their balance.

"You broke the failsafe," Eingana said. "The city's awake. Nice job."

The third and most powerful tremor came mere moments later. Elf and mage braced themselves against the walls of the narrow passage to remain on their feet, but it was a near thing.

Ahead of them, Hawke's magical prison began to brighten, the twists of confining energy flaring erratically.

"Anders," Eingana said warningly.

"Crap," Anders said. "It's-"

Before he could finish his sentence, the light-limned warrior flashed so brightly that for a moment neither of them could look at it. There was a thud, and when they could see again, Hawke was on one knee in front of them, hands against the floor.

Anders and Eingana froze, weapons gripped tightly as they waited.

Hawke looked up, and Anders breathed a joyful sigh of relief. Hawke's eyes were green. Normal. _Human._

"What..." Hawke rasped, his voice papery and faint. His eyes met the mage's. "Anders...?"

"Michael," Anders cried, reaching down to help him up. He never completed the motion.

Hawke rose to his feet in a smooth motion, and as they watched in weary horror, his pupils flash-dilated. In a moment, his eyes were black. His face twisted into a snarl.

Anders and Eingana recoiled, but before Hawke could do anything else, a small, stout hand appeared on his wrist, tugging it. Surprised, Hawke turned around. It was Sandal.

Elf and mage watched, open-mouthed, as the dwarf held out a small round stone. Hawke stared at it, baffled.

"Boom," said Sandal. The stone exploded.

Anders staggered backwards, managing to remain upward by planting his staff firmly behind him and leaning on it. The Warden-Commander barely managed to keep her feet by grabbing onto his arm.

As magical explosions went, it was a mere puff of force, but Hawke had been right in front of it. He was knocked hard against the wall, rendered unconscious in an instant. He collapsed bonelessly to the floor.

"Maker's breath," Anders gasped. Sandal still stood with his hand outstretched, smiling, his enchanted stone intact. Bodahn appeared behind Sandal, clapped him on the shoulder and hugged him, saying "That's my boy!"

Eingana knelt down to check on Hawke. Her hand brushed his neck, and she looked up at Anders.

"Alive," she said. "Out cold. I suggest we take him upstairs and figure out a way to keep him under control until Wynne arrives, and _fast. _There's no way to know how long it'll be before he wakes up on his own."

"Agreed," Anders said. He allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and breathe deeply. He swayed with exhaustion.

They had survived. Hawke was alive and under control, for now. Furthermore, before he had gone into rage, he had recognized Anders and said his name. His mind – his _true _mind, his entire self that Anders loved with all his being – was still intact. There was still hope.

Wynne would arrive in a few days. Could they keep Hawke alive and contained for that long?

We have to, Anders thought. What choice do we have?

Bodahn released his son from his hug as Eingana leapt up and yanked her sword from the wall. Sandal looked up at Anders and said "Could I have some salamanders, please?"

Anders laughed, knelt down, and hugged the dwarf tightly. "Yes. Yes you can. You can have all the salamanders you want."

Sandal clapped his hands behind Anders's back.

**Ω**


	12. Convergence

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Convergence"**

Michael Hawke woke from a very strange and disturbing dream.

He'd fallen asleep in the arms of his mage lover, content and harbouring a secret glimmer of hope for the first time in a long, long while. Then he tumbled into a confusing swirl of red clouds, voices assaulting him with meaningless noise from every direction, and occasional random bursts of pain. The chaos around him seemed to be constantly trying to order itself into faces or other defined shapes; it was consistently unsuccessful. Half-formed thoughts, unfocused, undirected, and essentially devoid of intelligible meaning, wandered around him with only himself to provide any definition to their nature or location. Only one thing was clear and continually present throughout the feverish dream: rage.

Gradually the clouds and storms drained away, and Hawke was floating in a strange bodiless place where he saw the world, blurred and hazy, as if from a great distance, but could not touch or interact with it in any way. The pain and the voices remained, but Hawke was lost in barely-aware state only a step above true unconsciousness. He heard the voices, but he was unable to distinguish them as anything other than noise. He felt the pain, and he twitched away from it, but it never went away and never startled him into any higher level of wakefulness.

This went on for some time, and the distant, unfocused world he saw was a stage for a series of unpleasant dreams. He saw himself biting and slashing Anders; there followed a period of fuzziness where he made out only flashes of images and scenes. He saw himself holding his dagger against Eingana's throat, exchanging blows with Bodahn, who wielded a fire poker with the kind of surprising skill that seemed likely only in surreal dreamscapes such as this one, and finally chasing the two of them into the cellars of the estate, eager to kill whatever was in his way, hands flexing and brandishing an unfamiliar longsword that carried an enticing tingle of magic.

Then there was an eruption of agonizingly bright light, and with brutal suddenness Hawke was entirely awake. He had no idea where he was – he was kneeling on a dusty floor, and his whole body was wracked with pain. His head and chest in particular throbbed with a slow, burning ache.

He looked up with difficulty, wondering what in the world had just happened. He was startled to see Eingana and Anders standing in front of him, tense and with weapons raised, as if expecting him to attack. Both looked battered and exhausted, and Anders sported several serious cuts on his face and a savaged ear.

Awful comprehension began to dawn on Hawke as the blurred-together images of the past few hours came back to him in a rush. He felt bile rising in his throat. What had he done this time? At least they were alive.

"What..." Hawke managed to rasp out. His throat was dry and scratchy; he felt like he'd been swallowing sand. Giving up on that sentence, he instead started, "Anders...?"

"Michael," Anders said with obvious relief. He reached down, presumably intending to help Hawke to his feet. Before his hand touched Hawke's, the warrior blinked, and with no intermediate sensory experience whatsoever, the world was different around him.

He was in the common room of the estate. He was still in pain, but it was at least considerably lessened. The grey, musty light of a heavily overcast sky streamed in through the windows; no candles or lanterns warmed the room with their illumination, and so it remained suffused in a gloomy twilight. Hawke struggled weakly, startled by the sudden radical change in his surroundings. He could move, but only barely – it felt like he was forcing his limbs through thick molasses. The effort to move his legs even a few inches was almost more than he could muster.

Hawke blinked, trying to clear the sludginess and sleep of a long unconsciousness from his eyes. He shook his head, trying to clear it. It eventually became somewhat easier to see.

Merrill and Varric were watching him from near the entrance to the antechamber; Reaver sat alert between them. All three were silent and seemed strangely lower to the ground than was usual. Then Hawke realized he was suspended in mid air, surrounded by a faint, translucent blue film. Looking down at himself, he noticed two things: first, he was dressed in nothing but tattered work trousers, and there were gleaming manacles on his wrists and ankles. Second, the air around him and within the magical blue tube he was suspended inside was filled with drifting, glittering sparkles. They congregated most densely around the manacles, but otherwise drifted in slow spiraling currents around his limbs and torso.

With difficulty, Hawke managed to raise one arm to his face, rubbing his forehead and trying to assuage some of the throbbing in his temples. His hand drifted down to examine his face and neck; at that point he realized that there was a metal collar around his neck, apparently matching the manacles.

He was trapped, imprisoned within enchantments as securely as he had ever seen anything or anyone confined in his life, and he knew, with a creeping sensation of horror and guilt, exactly why that was so. He'd never been bound so thoroughly in his life, and it was a novel experience, if a deeply unsettling one.

Hawke tried to speak, but his throat was still raw and painful. He cleared his throat and coughed a few times, then coughed for quite a while longer after inhaling some phlegm or saliva and choking on it. Covering his mouth and massaging his chest were difficult, since it took supreme effort and rather longer than usual to raise his hands into position. His legs curled beneath him during his ordeal, but he remained suspended within the force field.

Taking a series of slow, deep, ragged breaths, Hawke finally got control of himself and tried again to speak. Merrill and Varric had watched him silently throughout his coughing fit; Varric was dryly amused, while Merrill seemed to be wavering between concern and fear.

"What did I do?" Hawke ground out.

Reaver barked and sprang forward, wagging his tail. He seemed happy to see Hawke, but had kept still and silent until his master spoke, as if awaiting confirmation that it was really Hawke. He trotted up to the limits of the barrier and looked up at Hawke, panting and somehow managing to pull off a doggy expression of concern. Hawke smiled down at him and wished he could hug the dog. Reaver never judged him, always forgave him.

"You went nuts," Varric answered. Hawke rolled his eyes.

"I gathered that, thank you," he growled. "Did I hurt anyone? Did I _kill _anyone? How long has it been? Did anyone manage to find out anything useful from me about my condition while I was... _nuts_?"

"Nobody died," Merrill said. "You hurt Anders, and Commander Eingana and Bodahn quite badly, but they're alright. Anders healed them. And himself."

"Bodahn?" Hawke asked in surprise. "I went after Bodahn? What in the Void for?"

"From what I hear, he went up against you with a fire poker," Varric said, chuckling. "Gave Blondie and the Commander time to get their armour and weapons and set up some kind of magical trap. Saved both their lives."

Hawke was impressed. He knew himself, and he could be terrifying enough in combat without becoming lost in preternatural bloodlust. Bodahn was brave indeed.

"You said he was hurt," Hawke said. "...Badly? But Anders healed him – no permanent damage? He'll be alright?"

"He's fine," Merrill said. "A little shaken up, but fine."

Hawke nodded, relieved. "And... Anders? Eingana?" He swallowed, trying not to think of what he might have done to them during the night. "They still... have all four limbs?"

"Yes," Varric said. "They sent Reaver to find us, for help, but it was over before we got here. They lured you over some kind of magic trap glyph – Blondie explained it to me, but I still don't really get it. Apparently he was able to tap into some kind of ancient magical reservoir that powers the entire city. Or... is _powered_ _by _the entire city. That part made very little sense to me. And get this – it was by _accident_!" Varric crowed. "He didn't mean to do it; he didn't even know it was there!"

"Huh," Hawke said. He had a sneaking suspicion he already knew more about the ancient magic Anders had unwittingly tapped than Varric did.

"But when you set off that trap," Varric continued, "it shook all of Kirkwall. Quite a few buildings in Lowtown collapsed – some damage in Hightown too, and Darktown's a mess. Chambers of chokedamp ruptured... a horde of mages escaped from the Gallows... it started a bunch of fires... and a few were released demons here and there. Nothing major. We're still getting tremors, too – last one was about half an hour ago."

Hawke closed his eyes and opened them again slowly, shaking his head and trying to process the information he was receiving. "Released a few _demons_?"

Varric snorted. "That's not even the best part."

Hawke groaned and looked away. "Do I want to know what the best part is?"

"Even with a city's worth of magic powering his trap, it _still _wasn't enough to take you down!" Varric said. He voice was threaded with a mix of amusement, awe, and unease. "Blondie said the spell should have kept you under until he removed it, but you broke it in under two minutes. Congratulations, Hawke – you're hardcore."

Hawke gave him a withering look.

"Right," Varric said. "Er, it might also have had something to do with the first few tremors after the initial shock – there were about five or six, all in less than a minute. You were contained, but then there was a tremor and you were free again. Blondie and the Commander were here alone still – Reaver had found Merrill, but she was still on her way over – and they were about at their wits' end at that point. But then-" Varric started laughing again.

"What?" Hawke asked, annoyed. Varric wouldn't be laughing if he'd done something horrific, so that was a small comfort, but he would still rather the dwarf just tell him what had happened.

He tried to squirm, or move around a little to make himself more comfortable, but it was no use. The enchantment field held his spine ramrod straight, and the manacles around his wrists and ankles were weighted like lead.

"Sandal stepped in," Merrill supplied. "You were about to attack, and he used one of his enchantments on you. Knocked you against a wall and out cold!"

Hawke couldn't help smiling. He decided he forgave Varric for laughing. He had to agree that the idea of the small, rather dull-witted dwarf stopping him in his enraged, demonic state was rather comical and unexpected.

"Good boy," Hawke said. "Remind me to get him some salamanders later."

"Anders did already," Merrill said matter-of-factly. "Bodahn insisted he only get them a few at a time though, or else he could blow up the mansion with out-of-control enchantments. So he said."

Varric chuckled again. Hawke smiled, but as the humour of the situation faded and reality seeped back, his grin faded. His eyes wandered.

"Where'd you get the manacles?" he asked idly, examining the gleaming metal around his wrists.

"Blondie borrowed them," Varric said.

"Who does Anders know that has manacles?"

Varric coughed. "Isabela."

"Oh," Hawke said with a knowing smirk. "Of course. Silly question."

He exhaled and looked out the window. The sky was grey and mottled, a race of heavy clouds visibly rushing past. The window glass was spattered with rain drops, and the high winds were audible even from inside. There appeared to be no actual precipitation occurring at the moment.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Midday," Varric said.

"And you two are... what, standing guard?" Hawke asked with a tinge of bitterness in his voice.

"We can't be too careful, Hawke," Merrill said apologetically.

"No, I suppose not," Hawke said.

"You _did _almost kill three people," Varric pointed out. "And what stopped you cold the first time was technically a completely random magical accident."

"Uh-huh," Hawke said tartly. "So, since I was on such a rampage last night, you must now know for sure, right? Out with it, then."

"Know what?" Merrill asked.

Varric shook his head and rubbed his forehead. Hawke stared at him, waiting for an answer.

"Know _what_?" Merrill repeated, concerned.

"If he's possessed," Varric said without meeting Hawke's gaze. "And I'm sorry, Hawke, but from what Blondie told me about what happened, the answer appears to be yes."

"You're wrong," Merrill said at once. "I was there too, Varric, I heard everything you did. It's not a demon."

"What _else _could it be?" Varric asked her.

"I don't know," Merrill said firmly. "But I've been helping Anders research Hawke's condition for months now. I know what spirit possession does to a person, and this isn't it."

"Makes them crazy, dangerous, and powerful, right?" Varric raised his eyebrows as if this settled the issue.

"Hawke is _not _possessed," Merrill insisted. "I do know a few things about spirits, you know, Varric."

"There is that," Varric allowed. "So then, Madame Blood Mage, what do you think it is? It must be _something_."

Hawke started to ask a question, but Merrill spoke first.

"I agree – there's definitely something influencing Hawke. But it's not a spirit. The Dalish have lost much, but we have long memories. There is no known precedent for this. Anywhere, ever. There are _no_ spirits who behave like... like..."

She glanced at Hawke, her voice trailing off.

"Yes, I'm still here and not yet functionally deaf," Hawke said acidly. "Like _what, _exactly? What, pray tell, did I do?"

"You used magic," Merrill said. "Anders said it looked like you were emitting raw energy from your wounds."

Hawke frowned at her. "That can't be right. You must have misunderstood him."

"Nope, that's what he said," Varric confirmed. "Verbatim."

"But I have no magic," Hawke said. "I mean... it's in my bloodline, but the most sorcery I've ever accomplished is becoming insensitive to pain when I'm fighting and bloodthirsty."

Varric shrugged. "Well, you can apparently now also emit bursts of agonizingly painful magic and induce seizure and coma with your touch. And also withstand catastrophic magical explosions that happen right under your feet. Consider it... an upgrade?"

Hawke just stared at him, his frown becoming hostile and sour, and said nothing.

"You also, uh, _talked_ quite a bit," Varric went on in an effort to get Hawke to stop looking at him like that. "About... well, I don't really remember the specifics, but I remember it being confusing and scaring the shit out of me."

"Thanks, Varric," Hawke said nastily. "That's _real _helpful. Very reassuring."

"_I _remember what Anders said," Merrill cut in, looking at Varric admonishingly. "When he asked you – or whatever was controlling you – to identify itself, you said, 'We are everything and nothing. We are always and never, eternal and instantaneous, everywhere and nowhere. We are you, maleficar, and you are us.'"

Hawke frowned and shook his head in confusion. "What in the Maker's name does _that _mean?"

Merrill shrugged and shook her head. "I don't know either, Hawke, but I've never heard of any spirit who talks like that, or who claims to be... that. There's more, too – Anders kept asking it, telling it to speak plainly. He asked what manner of spirit it was. You said, 'Intensity. Indestructible. Transfinitude. Boundlessness. We are limitless. We are the horizon.'"

"Is 'transfinitude' even a word?" Varric asked. He watched Merrill askance, clearly uncomfortable with her words.

Hawke barely heard him, deep in thought. Something Merrill had said triggered a deep memory, long buried. _Boundlessness... limitless..._ blood magic, spirits, _intensity..._ what was it? He was sure he knew something, but _what_? Why could he recall every moment of ghastly pain he had experienced when fighting the blood mage Tarohne, but this was fleeting, dancing just beyond the edges of his conscious mind, taunting him with its promise answers withheld? Why, Maker damn it, _why _couldn't he remember what the words reminded him of when it was now so important?

Hawke squinted, wracking his mind, trying to force himself to remember, but it was no use. The memory had fled, less clear now than it had been when Merrill first spoke. Gone. It made his blood hot with frustrated rage.

His pulse was accelerating. He felt like the magical cylinder around him was closing in on him, squeezing the breath from his chest and slowly suffocating him. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths – panicking would be bad. He couldn't panic. He would lose it, dredge up the demon or whatever it was, blast himself free with magic and...

"Hawke?" Merrill asked with a touch of concern in her voice, watching his face. "Does any of that... mean anything to you?"

"No," he growled. "I can't remember."

"Blondie said it had given him a thought," Varric said consolingly. "He didn't say what it was, though. He might know more by the time he gets back."

"Speaking of Anders," Hawke asked, voicing a question that had been nagging at him for a while now. "Back from _where_? Where did he go?"

"The Black Emporium," Merrill said. "There's a book there he wants."

"Ah," Hawke said approvingly. "Old Xenon probably knows something that can help us. I've been meaning to take Anders there for a while – I offered a few times and he always said no."

"He said he'd intended to ask you last night where it was," Merrill said, "but never got around to it. The Warden-Commander knew, though. She went with him."

"They left hours ago," Varric added. "I imagine they'll be back fairly soon."

"Good," Hawke said darkly. "The sooner we know something, the sooner we can fix it and the sooner you can let me _out _of this thing."

**ασυνέχεια**

Anders paused outside the dank, poorly-lit corridor to examine it closely, peering into the shadows to try and see what lay beyond the distant doorway. Eingana, heedless of his misgiving, marched into the musty gloom as if she did it every day. She only noticed Anders hadn't kept pace with her after several steps. She stopped and turned around.

"What?" Eingana asked.

Anders shrugged and stepped forward, wondering if he was imagining the chill that settled over his flesh the moment he entered the corridor. His eyes darted around ceaselessly, looking for... he didn't know what, but anything that would justify the surge of apprehension he felt just being near the place.

"This has always been a last resort," he muttered, hurrying to catch up with the Warden-Commander and keeping close behind her as she moved forward. "I've heard... quite a bit about Xenon the Antiquarian and his Black Emporium."

Anders probed with his magical senses, feeling no obvious traps. What he _did_ sense was an impenetrable wall that overlapped the actual wall ahead of them. He suspected he could throw catastrophic magical forces at that wall and it would remain solidly undamaged.

"Don't worry so much," Eingana said reassuringly. "Xenon isn't dangerous. Well... not really. As long as you pay for whatever you buy. And don't annoy the golem."

"Golem?" Anders asked in amazement.

"You know," Eingana said. "Big stone guys? Ancient dwarven magi-tech? Remember Kal'Hirol?"

"I know what they are," Anders said, annoyed. "Xenon has one?"

"Three or four, I think, actually," Eingana said with airy unconcern. "One of them is even for sale." They reached the doorway and stepped into the large, dimly lit room beyond.

"Visitors!" said a croaking, resonant voice that seemed to come from every direction at once. "Welcome to the _Black Emporium_!"

The voice drew out the words to unnecessary length, hitting the _k _in _Black _rather hard. Anders searched for the source of the voice, eyes widening at the wondrous objects clustered and piled on shelves all around him. He hadn't expected to see a golem so soon, or so close to the entrance, but the hulking stone mass beside him could be nothing else. It was utterly still and softly luminous with intricate traceries of glowing lyrium.

"Warden-Commander!" the voice continued in a gravelly, if deeply enthused, groan. "Welcome back. So nice to see you again!"

Anders looked around, startled to find that Eingana had already advanced far into the vast chamber and left him alone with the golem near the door. He hurried forward to catch up with her.

"Hello, Xenon," Eingana said. "How have you been?"

"Oh, you know," the voice replied. "Hanging around." Perverse cackling ensued.

Anders was unsure what to think of the twisted, fleshy object that seemed to have become, or merged with, a decayed wooden throne embedded in a dais that sat in the center of the room. Most of the chamber's illumination came from a shaft of light, dense with swirling dust motes, that fell on the thing through a chaos of intersecting rafters from above. If he used his imagination, Anders could see how it once might have been a human being or something similar, but that must have been long ago. Whatever had happened to it since seemed to involve desiccation, a utterly horrific chemical stench, and the growth of several more than the usual number of limbs.

"Who is your friend?" said the voice. It was somewhat louder right next to the flesh-chair thing, but its source was still not from any obvious direction. Anders, hand over his nose to try and filter out some of the awful reek, wondered how the thing – which was clearly Xenon the Antiquarian – talked at all.

"I don't remember inviting him," Xenon went on, and Anders was chilled at the suddenness with which the entity's voice went from a slightly crazy cheerfulness to cold and unfriendly.

"This is Anders," Eingana said. "He's a good friend of mine and his credit rating is excellent."

"Oh," said Xenon, once again proverbially all smiles. "That's alright then. Welcome to my shop, Anders. Ah – why don't you say hello to Thaddeus?"

Anders turned around and couldn't contain a startled yell when he saw the golem looming right behind him. How, by the Maker, had it gotten there so quickly and quietly? He hadn't heard a single sound but for Xenon's and Eingana's voices and the distant, rustling creak of footsteps in Darktown overhead.

"Oh, don't be intimidated, he's gentle as a lamb," Xenon cackled. "As long as you don't make any trouble, of course."

To Anders's amazement, Eingana reached out and shook the golem's hand.

"Thaddeus," she said. "You're looking well. Been alright?"

The golem didn't visibly react at all, until Anders looked closely and saw that its stone fingers had actually curled slightly around the Warden-Commander's hand. He couldn't help wondering if the world had gone completely mad, or if he was dreaming.

Eingana glanced at him, and hissed, "Don't be rude, Anders."

Anders gave himself a shake and, heart pounding, reached out to shake the golem's hand too. "Thaddeus," he said with forced calm. "A pleasure."

The golem's grip in his hand – or rather _on_ it, since it essentially enveloped his entire hand up to his wrist – was firm, but surprisingly, not crushing or painful. Anders squinted; had the stone creature's rigid face just smiled at him?

Surely not. Surely that was impossible.

"Have you come to find anything in particular?" Xenon asked. "Or just to browse?"

"Just browsing, myself," Eingana said. "Anders is looking for something, I think – a book, he said. What did you say it was called?"

It took Anders a moment to get over the absurdity that was going on around him, and Eingana reacting to it as calmly as if it were a trip to the market for bread, and find his voice. "Oh. It's the, uh... the Emergent Compendium."

"Ahhh, yes," Xenon said fondly. "A wondrous tome, indeed! I have it hidden away... can't trust everyone who comes in here not to stand around, absorbing its secrets for free... powerful secrets, sometimes! URCHIN!"

Anders jumped at the strange entity's sudden increase in volume. The Black Emporium was only getting more bizarre by the minute: at Xenon's shout, a filthy child, dressed in rags and with shaggy, unwashed blonde hair, appeared from behind the golem as it made its ponderous and eerily quiet way back to the entrance.

"Urchin!" Eingana greeted the child as if reunited with an old friend as he trotted up to her with a grin on his face. She ruffled his hair affectionately. "Put 'em up, hoss."

The child extended his fist, and Eingana bumped hers against it.

"Urchin," Xenon boomed. "Fetch the Emergent Compendium for the customers, if you please."

The child eyed Anders for a moment, his expression unreadable.

"Chop chop!" Xenon yelled, and the child darted away, disappearing into the darkness before Anders had really focused on where he was.

"He'll be a moment," Xenon announced, and though his voice was quiet like a mutter, it still seemed to come from every direction. "In the meantime... look around! Look around! There's so much to see." He cackled some more.

"Check this place out, Anders," Eingana added. "Lots of stuff here you won't find anywhere else." She wandered over to a disorderly pile of chests and boxes, some of them hanging open and others sealed with multiple locks both mundane and magical – Anders could sense the pulsations of some of the wards from where he was standing.

He hurried after the Warden-Commander, not wanting to lose track of her in the gloomy, unpredictable Emporium.

"You've been here before," he said in a slightly accusatory whisper.

"Once or twice," Eingana said nonchalantly. She opened a chest and rifled through its contents – a mass of tarnished jewelry and amulets.

"How long have you known about this place?" Anders persisted. "Do you come here... often? All the way to Kirkwall, just for this?"

"Not _that _often," Eingana said. She waved her hand airily. "Xenon and I go way back."

"How far back, exactly?" Anders asked with an edge in his voice.

In the spear of light behind them, Xenon cackled quietly. Anders felt a chill along his spine. Eingana smiled thinly and just said "Check the books. See if there's anything else here that might be useful."

Anders sighed, realizing he wouldn't get a straight answer out of her, and looked around for a bookshelf. He was here to help Hawke. Anders himself barely had two copper bits to rub together, but Hawke had deep pockets. He'd offered to pay for anything that helped Anders find a solution; presumably, that was what Eingana had meant when she'd said his "credit rating" was excellent.

He spotted a rickety shelf of tomes wedged between a large oval mirror set in an intricately carved wooden frame and a tottering pile of what appeared, disturbingly, to be entire human ribcages. He made his way over to it, carefully avoiding looking at the bones or into the mirror.

On his way, he started away from an ornate wooden box that emitted a muffled, tormented scream. Xenon said nothing and Eingana didn't even look up; Anders decided he would be better off not asking, and moved on.

He reached the bookshelf and scanned the ancient, cracked leather bindings for any titles that looked interesting. Quite a few were in languages he'd never seen or heard of before; several more had only bizarre, sometimes gruesome pictographs, or no markings at all. Of the few titles he could read, most were disturbing enough that he would rather not have read them at all. One or two he forgot the instant his eyes left the spine anyway. Then his eyes fell on a title he recognized.

"Hmmm..." Anders murmured. "'Anciente Secrets of Bloode and Stone'..." His eyes fell on the price scrawled on a scrap of parchment tucked under the book. He cursed fluently.

"What?" Eingana asked. She had moved on from the box of assorted jewelry and was now poking through the ribcages.

"I _rented _this book on the black market – I had it for less than a week – and look! Here it is for sale, and for two-thirds the price!" Anders complained. "Bloody Marchers think they can get away with gouging a Fereldan apostate just because he's foreign and they have Maker-cursed lyrium-addict templars in their pockets, and..."

His words dissolved into angry mumbling. Eingana smirked and sidled past him, having lost interest in the ribcages.

Anders stepped back from the bookshelf and folded his arms, eyes wandering impatiently as he waited for the urchin to return with the book. The Emergent Compendium was really the only thing he needed. He had a feeling searching all the books in the place would take him far more time than he had, and would only lead to frustration, temptation, or madness.

Eingana was rifling through several containers of what appeared to be mundane crafting ingredients.

"Xenon," she called out. "You got any spindleweed? Or glitterdust?"

"Check... the back room," Xenon croaked. Anders turned to Eingana in time to see her disappear behind a decorated curtain with a swish and clatter of wooden beads, leaving him alone in the main chamber with Xenon and Thaddeus. The curtain continued to clatter for several moments, and Anders was confused until he realized that the floor itself was shaking gently, rattling objects all around the room. Xenon grumbled something about knocking over delicate objects and shouted for the urchin to hurry up. The tremor soon subsided.

Anders paced in a slow circle around the perimeter of the main chamber, examining the assorted items and relics scattered about the place in no apparent order. He wondered what was taking the boy so long. There must be a great deal more hidden in the back rooms – hoards of treasure, perhaps, or more artifacts... dangerous magical items... arsenals of enchanted weapons and armour... libraries of long-forgotten or long-forbidden arcane knowledge...

What had that boy's life been like, Anders wondered, to end up as assistant to Xenon the Antiquarian? Where were his parents? Did they know where he was? Were they even still alive? Unlikely, he reasoned. Who would allow their child to work in a place like this?

What had happened to them? There were so many ways to die in Kirkwall. Gangs, slavers, rogue mages... abominations... not to mention templars. Ander's face twisted with hate. Templars killed as many innocents in their fanatical crusades as mages did trying to get away from them. Perhaps more.

Of course, mages were far from innocent. Anders found it hard sometimes to keep reminding himself of that. Some mages believed their gifts granted them automatic rights to rule over their fellow sapient beings. Some used their unfortunate victims as fuel for their obscene magic... some were playthings for demons, and killed for the pleasure of it...

For the first time in many months, Anders allowed himself to think of the young girl he'd killed, the mage who had been fleeing Ser Alrik. Her name, he'd discovered later, was Ella. She had been taken from her mother abruptly upon the templars' discovery of her magical ability. It had been her further misfortune to encounter Ser Alrik during her desperate flight, and to be pursued by him even as he was pursued himself...

It seemed so long ago. Years. A lifetime. Justice still burned inside him, but since that day in the caverns beneath Darktown, Anders had forced the spirit's wrath down into a deep, cold part of himself and locked it there with the entire force of his willpower. The brutal and blatant oppression of mages by the templars had only worsened since Knight-Commander Meredith had stepped into the Viscount's seat after the qunari conflict. Justice continued to seethe and clamour for action, but Anders no longer felt truly worthy to fight for the freedom of mages when he himself was proof of everything the Chantry and the templars said about his kind. He had long since grown used to ignoring the demands of that part of himself, of living with the slow, smoldering burn of the spirit's twisted drive for vengeance gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

Michael Hawke was what he lived for now. Helping Hawke had become the focus of his life, and he was absolutely determined to see it through to its end. Right now, given what Anders had witnessed last night, it seemed far more likely that his lover would be utterly consumed by the alien influence that gripped him. Anders would be killed trying to save him and Hawke would lay waste to Kirkwall. Eventually, he would fall to the templars, just as he had predicted so bitterly in his sarcastic despair.

Anders refused to let that happen. He would stop this. He would return Michael Hawke to the way he had once been. _Normal_. Slightly crazy and bloodthirsty, yes, and definitely arrogant and snarky and frequently downright nasty, but a good man at his heart. A strong and intelligent man, a beautiful man, a man who cared about people and fought for them despite trying his hardest to project indifference. A man worth loving, despite his flaws, with his entire being. And a man who loved him back, despite his own considerable freakish imperfections.

Anders couldn't _not _do everything in his power to save that man. He would see Michael Hawke free and sane – at least, as sane as he had been before – or he would die trying.

And what then? Anders wondered. What if he _did _succeed? Could they continue on as they had, Hawke killing lowlifes and giant spiders and hunting apostates, ostensibly for the glory of Kirkwall but really to sate his bloodlust, and Anders tagging along and healing his wounds, pretending not to care about anything else? Pretending he wasn't an abomination, pretending he could ignore the openly vile way mages were treated in this city?

Anders buried his face in his hands, wondering how it was possible that his life had come to be this screwed up. Where had everything gone wrong? Why couldn't he have seen that a spirit of Justice was just as dangerous a demon of Pride, before it was too late? Why couldn't he have never met Michael Hawke, the lunatic, bloodthirsty bastard, and fallen so completely, hopelessly in love with him? Why couldn't he have been born a normal human being, no magic at all, or better yet, never born at all?

Anders choked on his tears. He wouldn't, _couldn't _give in to despair. He had to keep going. He had to keep fighting, keep putting one foot in front of the other, somehow. What choice did he have? If he killed himself, who would look after Hawke?

His chest heaved. The anguish in his heart was like physical pain.

He felt slender, calloused fingers on his wrists, gently pulling his hands away from his face. Eingana folded him in her arms, rubbing his back and making wordless, soothing sounds. Anders hugged her back, choked by a powerful rush of gratitude and affection for the elven woman, but he resisted allowing himself to cry into her shoulder. If he started, he didn't trust himself to be able to stop. Eingana was a Grey Warden; technically, so was he. She comforted him because they were friends, and had grown close during the chaotic aftermath of the Blight in Amaranthine. But her duty would forever come first, and so would his.

Presently, Anders regained control over his emotions, and gently disengaged himself from Eingana's embrace. He wiped his face and cleared his throat. Eingana looked at him with concern in her bright brown eyes.

"Thanks," Anders mumbled. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Eingana said, rubbing his shoulder. "We all have our burdens. We all have times where it gets to be too much. What's important is not giving up."

It was like she had read his mind. "How do you do it?" he asked her. "I mean... I know some things, because I was with you in Amaranthine, but the things _you _must know... it must get to be too much for you, sometimes. How...?"

"One day at a time," she said softly. Anders nodded, rubbing the last of his tears away from his eyes and squaring his shoulders. He turned to find the urchin child holding out a vast, thick tome, its stained leather binding black and featureless. Anders took the heavy book with a nod of thanks, and the child vanished back into the shadows as quickly and quietly as he had appeared.

"Set it down over here," Eingana suggested, indicating a stool nearby whose three legs appeared to be carved from coral. Anders followed her instruction, setting the tome down with a heavy thud.

"Xenon charges for examining this thing by the half-hour," Eingana said as she joined him beside the stool. "I suggest we see if we can find what you need as fast as possible."

"Is it for sale?" Anders asked as he gingerly opened the book. Several pages fluttered open with the cover; another tremor briefly disturbed the stillness of the room, prompting another bout of cursing and complaining from Xenon.

"I asked Xenon," Eingana said in a lowered voice. "Technically, yes it is, but the price he asked for it could probably bankrupt every noble in Val Royeaux."

"I heard that," Xenon ranted. "That volume is one of a kind – I can't let it go for piddle!"

Eingana waved at him to be quiet as Anders flipped through the leaves of the book, at first carefully and then with increasing speed as just _how_ "one of a kind" the book really was became apparent – for try as he might, Anders could not find the first page.

No matter how many he turned, theoretically advancing towards the front cover where an index would conceivably be located, there were always more pages. The leaves slipped like sand between his fingers. Pages upon pages of indecipherable text, innumerable designs of strange objects, sketch after sketch of unfamiliar faces – all flashed past in a blur even though only a few pages appeared to separate the book's front cover from the vast remainder of its text.

"That's kind of cool," Eingana said, "but also very, very scary. Are you sure _this _is the book you needed? I don't want to be... sucked into it, or anything."

"This is impossible," Anders breathed. "There... is no way, physical or magical, that this can be a real object. It simply cannot exist."

"And yet it does." Eingana tapped the book with her finger to illustrate her point. "What are you trying to prove by going back and back and back like that? All you're doing is letting the book flaunt its cannot-beness. It's probably degrading our sanity just watching it."

Anders stopped his flipping of the pages at once. That seemed unlikely, but he wasn't about to take any chances with an object like this. "I was trying to find an index. Do you think there is a first page, or does it just go on forever?"

"I think if there _is _a first page," Eingana said, "it would take impracticably long to find it, and if we did, witnessing and reading the index would drive us both mad from the revelation."

"Yes," Anders said. He pondered how to search a potentially infinite book for the one specific piece of knowledge he needed. Nothing came to him, so he dug around in a pocket of his robe for the piece of vellum on which he'd noted down the reference that had led him to the Compendium in the first place, hoping for ideas.

The other tome had mentioned a specific design found in the Compendium, and, seemingly aware of the problem of finding anything in the book, had referenced an approximate depth into the book from its front cover at which the design might be found again. At the time, Anders had had no idea what the reference meant; now he did. Hardly daring to hope that such an imprecise guide would be worth anything with such an endlessly mutable artifact, Anders ran his fingers down the block of pages to the specified depth and opened.

He was confronted with a wall of indecipherable language resembling no alphabet used in Thedas or elsewhere that he knew of. He started to flip the leaves forward, hoping to get lucky.

"Here," he said to Eingana. "Keep your finger there. I'll look towards the back, and you look towards the front. Keep an eye out for this design." He showed her the vellum on which he'd copied the reference. Eingana nodded.

Keeping the place where he'd opened the book noted with their fingers, Anders and Eingana searched forwards and backwards into the book, flipping pages up ninety degrees and holding them aloft so that both could see the text at once. It was far from the most efficient means of searching for information, but after only a few minutes, Anders found the design he had copied.

"Here," he said excitedly. "This is it."

Eingana allowed the pages she had searched to close, enabling Anders to fully open to the page he had come to. The design occupied the upper half of the left-hand page, and below it – a blessed relief – was text in the common tongue.

"What are we looking for?" Eingana asked.

Anders indicated the design in the Compendium with his finger. "This is a convergent sigil," he explained. "It's a kind of visual representation of a spell of blood magic that affects the target's desire for violence and combat. It involves the – well, it's complicated and the details are rather... disgusting, and I'm ashamed that I even know them, so never mind. The important thing is, the book I found this in talked a lot about it, and it reminded me of something Michael said to me – I asked him to write down what he remembered about several battles he'd fought with powerful blood mages in the past, not just the one who killed his mother. One of the spells a mage named Tarohne cast on him – his description of it sounded like it involved this sigil, somewhere. I looked into it, and I cross-referenced it with..."

Anders scratched his head. "It's a long and complicated story, really – this theory I've been working on for the last few months – it involves blood magic and several other sigils like this one, and I don't know if I could explain it to a non-mage in any way you could understand-"

"Don't worry about it," Eingana said impatiently. "Get to the point. What's so important about this particular sigil?"

"This sigil, and the various others – I matched up several of them to spells Michael remembered being cast on him. Most of them were by Tarohne or one of her cohorts, and one last one by Quentin – that's the mage who-"

"Yes, I remember," Eingana interrupted. "Continue."

"Well, all of it _kind _of fit together – and that story Michael told about his reaver initiation helped me put a few of the final pieces in place – but there was one thing missing. One element common to each that was... just not there and should have been. All of those spells cast on him, interacting with his physiology and the reaver ritual he'd gone through all those years ago – and with each other – it all added up to the symptoms Michael was experiencing, except for one critical element that connected everything but which was absent. There were a few things it could have been... one of them being a demon... but..."

Anders was turning the pages of the Emergent Compendium frantically, eyes skimming over the text, years of study as a mage and months of study of this subject in particular enabling his eyes to pick out critical words here and there. Several more convergent sigils were depicted, and Anders nodded at each, saying "Yes... yes..."

He turned a final page, and both of them stared in shock at the image scrawled there.

It was a man – not Michael Hawke or anyone either of them recognized, but still eerily familiar, rendered in breathtaking detail. His hair and beard were long and shaggy, matted with blood. He was dressed in only ragged breeches, and he stood in a defiant, aggressive stance, ready and eager for combat. One hand gripped a bloodstained axe, and the other held high a severed head. The man's teeth were bared in an animalistic snarl. He was covered in slash and stab wounds, the blood flowing from them depicted in startling realism. Wavy lines wandered about the man's body, originating in the wounds – neither Anders nor Eingana would have understood what they were supposed to represent if they had not seen Hawke bleeding raw magic from his injuries the night before.

Perhaps most telling were the man's eyes. His brows were furrowed in rage and his eyes were unnaturally wide, shaded entirely in black but for sparks in the center where the artist had left no ink.

"Andraste's ass," Eingana breathed. "That's it, isn't it? That's the same thing. What does it say?"

Anders was reading frantically, eyes darting over the page. Memories of strange dreams were awakening in him as he desperately absorbed information, processing it alongside his previous understanding and knowledge, searching for the connection.

_Distraction made flesh. _Yes, of course, that made perfect sense. –But why had he thought that? _Why _did it make perfect sense? Where had he heard that before?

_Always in peripheral, another mind – untethered_. Unfocused. Not paying attention, distracted – _distraction made flesh._

"_Yes_," Anders grunted. "That dream... Fuck, what did they say? What was it?"

"What are you talking about?" Eingana said. Anders silenced her, thinking intently.

_His form, shattered. _Shattered, yes, and bleeding – once shattered, no longer whole or subject to the rigid order of the physical world, the energy could seep out, become stronger – more able to _affect_ that world–

What had Hawke said the night before? _Intensity. Boundlessness. We are limitless. We are the horizon. _But what did that mean?

_Stay focused – whims escape to their own action._

"It's not a demon," Anders breathed.

"No?" Eingana said. She was staring at him, waiting impatiently for him to work through his epiphany and share it with her.

"From the Fade," Anders said eagerly, desperately trying to sort together the mass of information swirling in his mind, each moment combining and recombining into new answers. "Not a demon or spirit, but still an entity from the Fade – something to do with – with _thought_, but not focused like a spirit is. Not something fueled and defined by a single virtue or sin – not like Justice or Pride, but something... loose, distracted..."

Eingana's face was grey. Her expression had frozen. Anders barely noticed.

"'We are everything and nothing,' he quoted. 'Always and never, eternal and instantaneous, everywhere and nowhere'... It's no single thing at once, because it's multiple things brought together in an incoherent mess, but there's so much of it and it's so old that it's gained a kind of pseudo-sentience on its own-"

"Transfinitude," Eingana whispered. "Limitless."

"Yes, yes, it's that too, because – ...what?"

Anders looked at Eingana, only now really seeing the shock and dismay on her face. "What's the matter?"

Her eyes went to his, then down at the engraving in the Emergent Compendium. Her hand went out to touch the drawing. Her fingers trembled over the inscription beneath it: _Does an afterthought prove the gods when direction action is long missing?_

"Did I ever tell you," she began softly, "about the Watchguard of the Reaching?"

Anders blinked, baffled. "Uh... no, I don't think so."

Eingana shook her head, her eyes wide in amazement, taking slow, deep breaths. "During the Blight, when I went to Kinloch Hold to recruit the mages – that was when Uldred had taken over the tower and filled it with demons and abominations. You heard about that."

"Yes," Anders said quietly. "I was lucky not to be there at the time. That was my... eighth escape attempt, I think. It's probably the reason I'm still alive. Well, one of the reasons."

"But there was something _else_ in the tower, too," Eingana said. "Something very old and very powerful, that had been released as all the wards were stirred up and unraveled, the structure damaged by the fighting and the intense magical energies being thrown around. Wynne was with me – she knew more about what was going on than I did, and I only barely understood it when she explained it to me at the time. We ended up having to fight it on the way out, _after _we had killed Uldred."

Anders listened with wide eyes, eager to know more. If Eingana had encountered something like this in the past, and killed it...

"It ambushed us on the ground floor, coming up from the basement," the Warden-Commander went on. "It nearly killed a few apprentices – just children, whom Wynne had rescued and had kept there under the protection of some surviving mages, but lucky for them, Alistair was with us – he jumped right in its path as it was charging, roaring with energy and red flames. Leliana was there too – I've told you about her. She and I and Wynne fought it, and the mages that were protecting the children helped us, but it was still a very near thing. Alistair kind of... _seized _when it touched him, and he had horrendous burns all over his face and arms. His armour was melted right into his chest – ruined the breastplate, and if Wynne hadn't been there to heal him, he would have died in agony. He was out of commission for the rest of the fight. We did eventually kill it, but like I said... after everything else we'd fought, we were all exhausted and wounded and drained... it was close. One of the closer encounters of my life. Terrifying, too."

"And..." Anders fumbled with the phrasing of the question, his mind still racing with the possibilities of this knowledge. "Did you ever find out – I mean, do you know what it _was_? Do you think – if there was another one like that – could it-"

"Possess someone? I don't know, Anders, but I think... I think whatever's got Hawke must be the same kind of thing. Wynne called it..." Eingana twisted her lip in concentration, trying to remember. "She called it _Shah Wyrd. _I don't know if that was the thing's name or some kind of arcane classification... she said it was like a spirit, but not quite the same – it embodied distraction, unfocusedness, daydreaming... all thoughts create echoes in the Fade, and this thing had been born from some foolhardy explorers centuries and centuries ago who hadn't enough control or drive to prevent their _whims _from _escaping..._"

"_To their own action_," Anders finished, nodding. He was stunned. He looked back at the Emergent Compendium, skimming along under and around the drawing, searching for anything he might have missed.

"It was a grueling fight," Eingana said softly, more to herself than to Anders, who was hardly listening. Her eyes were distant with memory. "The _smell _the thing gave off was... overpowering. It was like – like saffron, almost, but... rancid. Something rotten underne-"

"Saffron!" Anders yelled. Eingana jumped, looking at him in surprise.

"That's it!" Anders went on. "Maker's breath, that's it!"

Eingana frowned in confusion. "...The thing that's got a hold of Hawke is... saffron?"

"No, no, no," Anders said impatiently. "It _smells _like saffron, but – not really saffron, like you said, but like it's gone bad. Like it's saffron mixed with something else, something that smells of decay..."

Eingana continued to frown. "I'm not following you. If it's the same kind of entity, logic dictates that it _would_ smell the same – so what? What does that have to do with what we've just learned?"

"Nothing, really, it just confirms it," Anders said. "The last few times Michael's lost control, and gone into his – ragey state where his eyes are black and all that – there's been a kind of... smell around him. Do you remember, when he was telling us the story of his reaver initiation – he said there was a certain smell about the man who initiated him, but it wasn't a _smell _per se – more like a sensation? Not a smell you smell with your nose. It's been like that, and _so _familiar, but I've never made the connection until just now. It's not familiar to _me_ – it's familiar to Justice. He remembers the 'smell' of the spirit world, for lack of a better term."

Eingana's mouth opened in dawning comprehension. "I see. And you perceive this smell-sensation as saffron, but with a hint of decay?"

"Yes. I first noticed it... I think it was just the second time Michael went crazy with lust for me, out on the coast after we'd fought a band of raiders and their blood mage leader – the morning after, literally the next day after his mother died, that was when I first noticed that smell. It's been bugging my memory ever since – I've been trying to remember what it reminded me of, but I would never get anywhere with that – all this time it was never anything from this world. It's from the _other _world, and it was the spirit inside me who was remembering, not me."

"Well," Eingana said with a weary exhalation. "Good work, team. I think we've solved a considerable chunk of this mystery."

"Yes, we have," Anders said enthusiastically, but as soon as he said it he felt dread welling up in him, overpowering his elation and drowning it to a spark. At least now they knew Hawke wasn't possessed by a demon, but in some ways this was _worse _than a demon. The thing Eingana had fought had not even been in possession of a host – it had been forced to manifest its own, raw form. From her description of Shah Wyrd, whatever extraordinarily rare kind of entity that had a grip on Hawke was sure to be incredibly dangerous and very, very old. It would not easily relinquish a foothold in the physical realm.

Furthermore, there was no known way to reverse spirit possession – what chance was there to free Hawke from an entity far more powerful and unpredictable? What hope did Anders have, really, of ever having his beloved Michael Hawke back, alive and healthy and sane?

Eingana could clearly read the fear on his face, because she took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry," she said. "Wynne knows about spirits, and other things that are like spirits but not really. She'll know what to do with this information. Don't give up hope just yet."

Anders sighed and returned her squeeze, rubbing his forehead with his hand. She was right. As long as there was a chance, he couldn't give up. He couldn't sink into despair at his own wretched state or the dire situation of Kirkwall's mages. Michael Hawke was his whole world. He was everything Anders had.

"Come on," Eingana said. "Help me copy down the most important bits of this here, for Wynne to examine when she gets here, and we'll go. Hawke's probably awake by now, and he'll want to see us. You in particular."

Anders didn't have the energy to return her sly grin. He did as she suggested, noting down several crucial pieces of information the text provided on the nature of entities composed of unfocused thought. As he wrote, he found his eyes continually drawn to the engraved image. The rage in the man's eyes, even two-dimensional and rendered in pen and ink, was unsettling in its familiarity. It could have been Hawke staring back at him from the page.

Presently, they'd noted down everything they thought Wynne might need and a few other things just in case. Eingana shut the Emergent Compendium and began to haggle good-naturedly with Xenon over the price of their time with it. Anders tuned out their dialogue. He found himself resenting the hour or so of walking it would take to get from the Black Emporium in Darktown to the Hawke estate in Hightown. His mind was already there, roving over his lover's body, whispering in his ear that everything would be okay, that he would fix this.

**Ω**


	13. Maelstrom

**α**

**Author's Note** Hello readers! Thank you very much for reading this far. I appreciate every review and subscription sent my way. Even passive encouragement that lets me know someone enjoys my writing makes me feel good.

If you're enjoying "**Take It Out On Me**" or if you've read and enjoyed any of my other stories, check out my profile. It has links to screenshots of Michael Hawke as well as some delightful art of him done by some of my friends in the Dragon Age fandom. I also put together a list of some of the music that has inspired me for shaping several of the characters who appear in this story. If you're on Tumblr, you can follow me there and submit questions to Michael Hawke or Gage the Bloodmage (he'll show up later on in this story) which I shall endeavour to answer in character.

Finally, if you're a fan of dommy-Male Hawke/sub-Anders and enjoy a healthy dose of humour and wit with your porn, indulge my enthusiastic shoutout to **archer-and-anders** (link in my Favourite Authors), a great friend of mine who has beta'd a few chapters of this story for me and whose work is both ungodly hot and unendingly hilarious.

Once again thank you for reading, and without further ado, let the words continue to flow.

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Maelstrom"**

Anders squinted in the blinding light of the late afternoon sun, hovering radiantly over the roofs of various estates, as he crested the last of the stairs and entered Hightown proper. He was out of breath from the exertion – it was a long, tedious climb for anyone, and Anders considered himself to be in decent shape. He'd rather thinned somewhat over the last few months, but Hawke had complimented his musculature on a few occasions – once commenting that he was "elegantly flexible," and calling his smooth, lightly muscled body "aesthetically pleasing." No small praise coming from a strapping, formidable man like Michael Hawke.

Thinking about Hawke's body sent a surge of lust through Anders. He took a deep breath of the cool, late summer air, trying to slow his heart rate, glad his robe concealed rather well the bodily evidence of where his thoughts dwelled. He was anxious to return to the estate as soon as possible, to see Hawke again and to relay what he and Eingana had learned.

He wondered if it would do any good. There wasn't much he himself could accomplish without help.

"Do you know when Enchanter Wynne will arrive?" he asked the Warden-Commander as they wove their way through the Hightown market. Business was curiously slow, even for this time of day.

"I expect sometime tomorrow, or early in the day after at the latest," Eingana said. "The Knight-Commander insisted she be accompanied by one of Kirkwall's templars well before she enters the city. She may need to wait for him – or her, I suppose – before she can proceed past a certain point."

Anders scowled. "Meddling bitch," he cursed. Eingana looked at him in surprise.

"What business does Meredith have interfering with the affairs of a mage as powerful and influential as Enchanter Wynne?" Anders clarified his annoyance. "And from the College of Magi in Cumberland, at that. You said yourself that she is among the finest examples of what the Circle produces. She is an example to mages everywhere. She should be treated with the respect she is due, not escorted around like a criminal."

Eingana spread her hands. "I happen to agree with you, Anders, but it's not like there's much that can be done about it," she said. "I may be Warden-Commander in Ferelden, but here I'm just another dog-lord. They may put up a pretense of respect and civility, but I doubt I could scare more than a handful of the nobles here into doing as I asked if I really needed to. Wynne herself probably has more influence with the Chantry and the aristocracy than I do."

"I know," Anders said. "I didn't mean that to sound like I was blaming you. It just irritates me how Meredith acts like every mage is on constantly the verge of erupting into an abomination or lashing out with blood magic. Wynne helped you stop the Blight, didn't she? And that other woman you told me about – the apostate-"

"Yes," Eingana interrupted before he could name the second mage. "Both were instrumental in defeating the darkspawn. It couldn't have been done without either of them. But do you think the Knight-Commander cares about that? Or anyone in the Free Marches, really? The Blight never reached Kirkwall."

"Thanks to you – and two mages. Yet the bloody Marchers never seem to remember that they'd all have been horribly killed or dragged underground and made into _broodmothers_ without that effort."

Anders continued to seethe, but he softened when Eingana looked exasperated. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know I can be... grating, sometimes. I just needed to vent a bit."

Eingana smiled understandingly at him and touched his shoulder briefly.

They climbed another grand set of stairs out of the market and headed down a street towards the Hightown Square, where the entrance to the Hawke estate was located. Several of the people they passed on the way gave Anders and Eingana dirty looks, glancing pointedly at Eingana's obvious weapons and their utilitarian, less-than-clean garb. Eingana rolled her eyes and mouthed "nobles" to Anders; he mustered a wan smile for her.

"Why didn't we just use the secret entrance to the cellars in Darktown?" Anders asked. "We could have been there fifteen minutes ago and with no stuck-up Hightowners sneering at us."

"This is safer," Eingana said as they entered the square. It was curiously deserted. "There are-"

She was cut off as a shadowy figure loomed from nowhere right in front of her and slashed down with ragged claws. Eingana leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding evisceration.

Anders reached for the staff strapped to his back, but before he could touch it he felt a horrid wrenching sensation in his core and an overpowering weakness. He sank inexorably to his knees as a shadow fell over him. Eingana dodged and whirled her blades in a deadly blur before them, fending off attacks not only from the shade that had attacked her, but several others that had materialized around the square and headed straight for her.

Anders felt a deathly chill on the back of his neck. He struggled to move as the shadow deepened around him, but he was paralyzed with weakness. His fingers clutched ineffectually at his staff, still trying to free it from its straps.

Sure he was about to die, Anders blinked in surprise when the shadow and the chill simultaneously disappeared. An otherworldly groan of pain arose behind him, accompanied by a gruesome wet tearing noise.

Strong hands gripped him under his arms and hauled him to his feet. Anders looked up at his rescuer, blinking to clear his blurred vision. It was Donnic, Aveline's husband and fellow guardsmen, and Anders's occasional drinking buddy.

"All right there, mage?" Donnic asked. Anders glimpsed Aveline behind him, slashing at several more shades with her sword, her shield raised protectively to deflect hurled gobs of fiery matter from a bellowing rage demon.

"Yes," Anders grunted, feeling his strength returning slowly but steadily. He grabbed his staff and freed it at last, feeling a blessed surge of power as his hand made contact with the wood.

"Thanks," Anders said as Donnic stepped back and drew his sword, confident that the mage could stand on his own. "Timely rescue."

"You're not rescued yet. Watch Aveline's back, would you?" Donnic said, and rushed to help Eingana.

Anders glanced back and forth, cursing the sudden, unexpected demonic attack that had come from two opposing directions at once. Aveline seemed to be handling herself, so he checked on Eingana. She was nearly overwhelmed by the mass of shades swirling around and above her, extending their shadowy fingers to reach for her, slashing at her or trying to suck away her life as they had nearly done to Anders. Donnic's timely arrival scattered the diaphanous demons; he took up a defensive stance beside Eingana, sword and shield raised.

Anders turned back to Aveline. She was fighting furiously, stabbing out and slashing apart the shades that tried to attack her, but she couldn't move without exposing herself to the rage demon's fury raining on her from afar. Anders selected the fiery creature as his target and began to gather his magic for a devastating frost spell.

Energy swirled along his staff as he gestured, and the rage demon was enveloped in a dense, contracting cloud of fog and ice. It shriveled and hardened under the magical assault, forced to pause its attack on Aveline and allowing her to charge forward through the clustered shades. The demons scattered with a chorus of resonant groans. Several met Aveline's blade and were torn to shreds that rapidly deteriorated into foul-smelling denatured ooze.

Anders chanced a glance back at Eingana and Donnic. Side-by-side in the entrance to the square, they were successfully defending themselves against the churning horde of shades, but two more rage demons appeared to be tearing through the Veil beyond. The air was flickering and wavering in the center of the square, a sure sign that a more powerful demon was attempting to manifest.

Anders summoned and compressed as much magic as he could hold without releasing it. His hands trembled as he packed more and more force into a small area, and the crystal atop his staff began to ring with the resonance of the Fade. Having gathered near the limit of what he could contain, Anders altered the magic's character to wash away any trace of arcane alteration from whatever it touched, and at the same time corrode a demon's corporeal manifestation.

"Casting!" he yelled to warn his comrades of what he was about to do, and with a grunt of exertion he released his spell. A sphere of cloudy blue-white energy burst force, expanding in all directions and washing harmlessly over Eingana, Donnic, and Aveline even as it pushed the shades back and burned them to crisps of degenerate char.

Taking advantage of the demons' sudden disarray, Eingana and Donnic charged into them, slashing apart the shades that had survived Anders's spell. Anders looked around for Aveline and saw her fatally stabbing the pathetically shriveled rage demon. She was fine.

Anders returned his attention to the square. The rippling between the vine-festooned central pillars was growing more intense. Anders reached out with his magical senses and, by discharging his mana against it, attempted to shore up the local Veil and thereby prevent the demon from emerging. The last thing they needed was a demon of desire or pride breaking through and wreaking even more havoc.

Fortunately, his efforts appeared to succeed; the rippling and bulging of the fabric of reality ebbed and finally ceased. Unfortunately, the two rage demons had managed to fully manifest themselves; a third was working hard to follow suit, and a fresh swarm of shades surged through the rents left by the rage demons before they closed.

The door to Hawke's mansion burst open and Fenris charged out, lyrium markings ablaze and brandishing his greatsword. Anders caught sight of Isabela darting after him, but she rapidly disappeared into the lengthening shadows and he lost sight of her.

Having dealt with the demons in the street behind them, Aveline rushed forward to join her husband and the Warden-Commander, now engaging the newly emerged shades and rage demons. A number of city guards appeared from other streets in twos and threes and joined the battle, and Anders noted at least two templars locked in battle with a huge rage demon on the far side of the square.

Anders hung back from the battle, unwilling to openly employ magic with templars so nearby, but he kept an eye on Aveline, Donnic, Eingana, and Fenris, ready to step in and heal them or provide aid if they needed it. He glanced around, searching for any trace of Isabela, but the only sign of her presence was a shade here and there spontaneously withering into ribbons of denatured matter, or the occasional viscous burst of a tar bomb amidst the clustered demons.

There were now dozens of shades churning around the square, and at least four rage demons roaring their displeasure and tossing foul-smelling, flaming scum everywhere. Fenris was right in the thick of the battle, his face calm and focused as he carved a swathe with his greatsword through the shades on his way to one of the more dangerous rage demons. His lyrium markings flared with gleaming undulations of power, occasionally lashing out at an attacking shade.

Several city guards, directed by Aveline, had surrounded one of the fiery demons and were stabbing at it from all angles. One of the templars, seeing an opportunity, dodged away from the shade that was hounding him and sheathed his mace. He gestured emphatically with both hands, a blue aura growing up around them. The rage demon cowered as its flames died away, extinguished by the holy warrior's annulment magic. Thus suppressed, the maddened creature was hacked apart by the guardsmen, but not before it lunged with a furious roar, bowled one of the attacking guards over, and crushed his face with its molten fist.

On the other side of the square, the Warden-Commander was a deadly whirlwind of flashing blades. Her enchanted longsword sliced effortlessly through multiple shades with each powerful swing. Her second blade carried no gleam of magical enhancement, but she used it just as effectively – each stab seemed to hone in with uncanny precision on the sensitive, glowing eye-spots of the shades, sending them flitting backwards with resonant groans of fear and pain.

Anders caught sight of a rage demon, its slug-like body lurching forward and shoving a path through the turbulent maelstrom of shades with unusual determination. It was headed right for Eingana's back.

Anders hesitated, checking to see if either of the templars was watching. They appeared to be engaged, one fighting beside the guards and the other working to annul the rage demons' fire. Eingana was in grave danger, so he threw caution to the winds and gestured forcefully with his staff.

A small boulder, rock-solid despite Anders having conjured it from the air, hurtled from his staff towards the rage demon and impacted solidly against its heaving flank. The demon was uninjured, but the missile threw it off balance and stunned it long enough for Anders to prepare another spell.

A cone of vicious, biting ice swirled up around the demon, cooling its fires and making it wither in pain. Eingana turned to face it at the sound of its pained roar, but before she could attack Isabela had appeared at her side and landed a powerful kick against the demon's head. Made brittle by the icy attack, the demon's amorphous "head" came right off with a snap. With her knives, Isabela made short work of the rest of the demon's fume-spewing corpse; within moments, Anders had lost sight of her again.

Eingana raised one blade to Anders in thanks and launched herself back into the fray, once more slicing shades into fluttering ribbons of degenerate essence. She headed in the general direction of a rage demon that was forcing Donnic, inch by inch, back against a wall.

"Anders!" Aveline yelled. Anders looked over at her, taking a moment to rest after dispatching her most recent opponent. She indicated a corner of the square to Anders's right; when he looked where she was pointing, he saw a renewed frenzy of bulges and distortions building in the air. Another powerful demon was attempting to break through the Veil.

"I'll deal with it!" Anders called to Aveline, and she nodded, returning to the battle and directing several of her guards to the aid of the templar who had helped them earlier, now beset by rage demons on two sides.

Anders attempted to repeat what he had done before, venting raw mana into the atmosphere around the disturbance to reinforce the Veil. This time, however, his efforts felt pitiful and weak against the might of whatever was trying to emerge. Anders stumbled as the mana he'd forced against the growing rift was projected back against him twofold. He narrowly managed to stay upright, leaning on his staff, but his concentration was broken.

The Veil tore, and the air ripped open with a ghastly, earsplitting shriek. Anders had time to catch a glimpse of the violet fires and twisted horns of a desire demon before it flashed across the square and possessed the templar that Aveline's guards were rushing to the aid of.

Anders watched in horror as the man was lifted into the air, screaming a desperate plea to the Maker, engulfed in purple flames roiling out from inside his own armour. The demon released a shockwave that knocked men and shades alike back from its tormented host. His skin bubbled and burst, armour deforming horribly from the inside as his body was gruesomely reshaped into an abomination. The man's drawn-out scream of agony pierced the clamour of battle, becoming increasingly garbled and inhuman as his body mutated around his lungs.

Finally, the unfortunate templar, now possessed by the desire demon, crashed back to the ground with a roar that shook the entire square and sent a thrum of power through the chests of all present. Partially encased in the ruined shell of the templar's armour, the emblazoned Sword of Mercy still visible on the charred and twisted breastplate, the abomination charged at the nearest guard and clawed him cleanly in half.

A general cry of fear arose around the square, but to their and Aveline's credit, none of the guards fled. Directed by their captain, the guards began forcing the shades and the four surviving rage demons towards the walls and corners of the square, clearing a space around the central pillars.

Anders was momentarily confused, but he realized Aveline's intent when Fenris charged the abomination as it was rising from its grisly kill. Snarling, lyrium tattoos burning brightly, Fenris slashed a mighty blow at the abomination. He cut deeply into its arm and knocked it off balance, but it only seemed to enrage the creature. It rounded on Fenris with a flurry of blows from its horrific claws.

While the abomination was occupied with Fenris, Anders saw Eingana charging at it from behind, but he missed what happened next. Several of the shades had noticed him lurking in a shadowy corner of the square, and perhaps sensing his reserves of mana, went for him eagerly.

Backed into a corner, Anders swung his staff in an arc before him, raining razor shards of ice onto the shades. Most of them were at least slowed by the magical attack, and one or two ripped completely apart; one particularly hardy shade, however, powered through the storm of ice and latched onto Anders with its clammy, nebulous hands.

Anders had no time to react before the shade sucked hard on his spiritual energy. He fell to his knees in pain as a hideous weakness bloomed throughout his entire body. Nearly drained of mana and paralyzed with the awful, icy dullness of the shade's attack, Anders had no energy to conjure a spell. Determined not to give in, he struggled to raise his staff and strike the shade with it.

His blow was weak, but it gave the shade momentary pause, and the release of its filmy grip from his shoulders was a blessed relief. Anders staggered to his feet, scrounging up the dregs of mana that remained within him for a final attack, but he was saved the effort by an armoured figure that slammed shield-first into the shade. It was the other templar. The demon was crushed against the wall of the square, and the templar's blade plunged up into its fluttering body, causing it to dissolve into a fetid mist.

"Thank you," Anders said cautiously as the templar straightened. There was no way the holy warrior could have missed the elemental spell he'd cast – how would he react?

The templar turned to him, and Anders realized with a start that he recognized the man. It was Knight-Captain Cullen, an old friend of Hawke's.

"Don't mention it," Cullen said, panting with the exertion of battle. He leaned his head forward, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized Anders. "You... I know you. Anders, right? You're Hawke's man."

Anders nodded, watching him carefully. Cullen was a reasonable man, or so he'd been led to believe. Did he dare trust him?

"You're a mage," Cullen said. It wasn't a question. The templar's eyes scanned the square, taking in the few remaining shades falling to the guards; the rage demons were proving more difficult. Among the central pillars, Fenris and Eingana battled the hulking abomination that had once been Cullen's fellow knight.

"Yes," Anders said defensively. He couldn't help a slight sneer. Did Cullen intend to accuse _him _of summoning the very demons that had attacked him? The irony of the desire demon choosing a templar rather than the only mage present was almost humourous, and Anders might have laughed bitterly if the horror of the possessed man wasn't screeching and thrashing in the center of the square, pieces of the bisected guard still clinging to its claws.

To his surprise, the Knight-Captain's expression was not one of suspicion or mistrust, but desperation. "Please," he said softly. "Help us. Too many have died already."

He turned away, raising his sword and preparing to charge, and Anders felt a wash of shame at his unkind thoughts. Nobody _he_ knew had yet died, after all, and possession was far worse a fate than death. Cullen had not only lost a comrade, but would now have to fight the twisted monster the man had become.

Anders was more than willing to help, but there remained one problem – he was utterly exhausted. The shade's attack had left him drained and barely able to remain upright.

"Cullen," he called before the Knight-Captain had gotten too far away. Cullen paused and looked back at him.

"Do you..." Anders took a deep breath, hating himself for what he was asking. "Do you have any lyrium?

Cullen's fierce, impatient expression softened as he saw the exhaustion and weakness on Ander's face. He returned to the mage's side, producing a sparkling vial of blue potion from a recess in his armour. He pressed it into Anders's hands without breaking eye contact.

"Use it wisely, mage," Cullen said curtly. Anders nodded, and the knight charged off to help Fenris and Eingana.

Anders unstopped the vial and downed the potion in one gulp. He immediately felt a tingling sensation spread through his body, not entirely unpleasant. More importantly, it released a surge of magical energy throughout his frayed nerves, giving him the stamina he needed to cast a few more spells. Where he chose to deploy those few spells might prove critical to ensuring a desirable outcome of the battle, so he watched carefully for an opportunity.

The guards, including Donnic and helped by Aveline and Isabela, had largely destroyed the remaining shades and were now overwhelming the rage demons with sheer numbers. Anders thought it rather strange that no new shades had appeared, especially as the large rent in the Veil created by the desire demon had taken almost a minute to repair itself. Still, he could hardly complain at the lack of demons. As Cullen had said, too many had died already.

The reason behind the demons' attack in the first place was still a mystery, though Anders had a creeping fear that it had something to do with the tremors that had been rumbling through the city at irregular intervals all day. The intense magical forces discharged when Hawke had sprung the trap ward in the cellars beneath them appeared to have weakened the Veil, perhaps in numerous places throughout the city.

Noting how many of the guards were wounded, some of them grievously, Anders placed both hands on his staff and began to weave a spell of mass healing to spread throughout the square. It wouldn't be as effective as a single spell targeted at an individual would be, but it would heal minor wounds and staunch the flow of blood from severe ones – enough to revitalize the guards and their captain so that they could defend against any further demons that emerged.

The crystal on his staff began to glow a brilliant blue. Finishing his spell, Anders spread his hands, gesturing slowly with his staff to send a wash of restorative magic over the square. It slipped over the demons without touching them, but suffused the humans and elves of the guard with comforting warmth that repaired their injuries and left them feeling refreshed and alert.

Aveline gave him a grateful look before rallying her guards, some of them now able to fight again after having been too wounded to move, and under her command they dispatched the last roaring rage demon. The square was liberally splattered with both dark red bloodstains and the stinking, crusted remnants of shades and rage demon char.

In the center, the massive abomination was engaged in simultaneous battle with Fenris, Eingana, and Cullen. Anders was rather concerned to see that it was easily fending off their blows and, in fact, had all three on the defensive. Its deadly claws were whirling so fast it seemed to be in several places at once; Eingana was barely managing to parry its strikes with her blades, and Cullen with his increasingly battered shield. Fenris only managed to avoid horrific slash wounds by utilizing the lyrium brands in his skin to phase himself wherever the demon-possessed man's claws landed, causing them to pass harmlessly through him as if he was made of smoke.

Anders watched in amazed fear, looking for an opening and wondering how the abomination was moving so fast encumbered by the nearly useless fragments of the templar's armour. Then he realized with a shock of horror that the creature had actually grown an extra pair of limbs. It didn't just _appear _to have several sets of claws – it really did.

The city guards hung back from the battle at Aveline's order, vigilant for any further demonic emergences. The Guard-Captain herself, however, moved forward to join the battle. She carefully approached the enraged, flailing abomination from behind, shield held in front of her and sword raised, ready to strike.

The abomination whirled on her with a roar of fury. It charged and swung with two limbs, carving several wicked gouges into Aveline's shield. At the same time, Eingana darted forward, taking advantage of the creature's sudden vulnerability. Her enchanted longsword flashed with magic as she lashed out, lopping off one of the abomination's other arms. A fountain of black blood spurted forth, but Eingana was fast and agile enough that only a few drops of it landed on her. The creature raised an otherworldly wail of pain, and Anders felt the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end.

"Hey there, Sparkly," said a voice, and Anders jumped. Isabela had appeared next to him as if from nowhere.

"Nice healing spell you did there," she said. "Thanks for that."

"My pleasure," Anders said. "You not up for a piece of abomination pie?"

Isabela rolled her shoulders. "Ah, I'd just be in the way," she said good-naturedly.

Anders watched her with a wry smirk.

"What's with all this, anyway?" Isabela asked him. "Do demonic invasions just kind of _happen _from time to time in Kirkwall? And if so, why has nobody told me? There's no way I'd still be here if I knew about that."

"I rather doubt that," Anders said. "Like you said, demonic invasions don't just randomly _happen._ I think this has something to do with the magical trap I set for Hawke last night – did you hear about that?"

"Something," Isabela said, frowning thoughtfully. "Varric said something about an 'ancient magical superweapon' that you tapped into without even realizing you were doing it. Sounds like a party."

"Right," Anders said. "Here's your party. The Veil is already paper-thin in Kirkwall; I think that magical explosion weakened it further. There could be demons popping in throughout the city, for all we know. I just hope the guards can deal with it."

In the center of the square, the abomination let out a beastly howl and charged bodily into Cullen. The Knight-Captain braced himself behind his shield and withstood the body slam for a moment, but the creature's sheer strength was too much for him. He was pushed roughly onto his back.

Anders saw an opening – with Cullen lying on the ground, he could fire a spell at the abomination without risking hitting anyone else. Eingana and Fenris were attacking the abomination to either side, and Aveline was obscured from view behind it.

Thinking quickly what might be the best spell to use, Anders settled on a spell of entropic draining, a malicious kind of magic he rarely used. Violet energy fizzled around the crystal of his staff as he gestured and cast.

The abomination shuddered, its body wracked with pain and its senses dulled. Its movement slowed to a crawl, its claw drifting in a vague arc as if unsure whether or not it really wanted to strike.

Fenris took advantage of the creature's weakness to lash out with a powerful, lyrium-enhanced kick, knocking it over. Cullen clambered to his feet as Eingana and Aveline fell on the monster with their blades. The abomination let out another resonant bellow, stirring up dust in the corners of the square.

It burst to its feet as the spell faded, throwing back the fighters hacking at it, but it was now seriously injured and had lost another one of its limbs. It was only a matter of time before it fell. Anders was relieved that his spell had been successful, but he continued to watch the battle warily. He had one more good strike left in him, if it was needed.

Addled by blood loss and the last vestiges of the spell, the abomination's motions were sluggish and stupid, but it still put up a terrific fight. It lunged for Fenris, shoving the lean elf backwards before he could interpose his greatsword. The abomination flailed its clawed limbs, slashing a deep wound down Fenris's arm. He retreated, pressing a hand over the wound to try and halt the blood flowing from it.

Aveline's sword hacked at the abomination's back, and seemingly satisfied that Fenris was temporarily disabled, the creature turned on her. She raised her shield to deflect its claws, but the abomination unexpectedly whirled to instead strike Eingana as she was readying her blades. The Warden-Commander leapt backwards to evade the attack, but she had been taken by surprise; she impacted painfully against one of the square's central pillars, only barely out of the creature's range.

The abomination pressed its attack, lurching forward with both of its remaining limbs raised. Before it could strike, Cullen intervened, bashing the abomination with his shield as hard as he could. His blow knocked the creature off balance, causing its claws to land embedded in the marble pillar next to Eingana instead of in her head. She took the opportunity to recover and slip out from under the claws.

Anders began to move around the square, looking for another opening. Isabela kept pace with him, her eyes on the battle. The abomination was nearly finished, but it wasn't defeated yet.

The creature raised its arms with a howl and slashed them downwards, and Anders felt the Veil ripple and sunder. A fresh horde of shades burst into the world around the square. Prepared for a renewed attack, the guardsmen tore into the demons, preventing them from aiding the abomination.

Anders continued to watch for the opening he needed; Isabela protected him from the few shades that broke away from the swarm to attack them. Fenris was too wounded to attack again, but Eingana, Aveline, and Cullen were preparing to charge the creature from three different directions.

Seeing his chance, Anders made a rapid gesture with his staff and spoke a word of power. A bolt flung from his staff crystal darted between battling shades and city guards and impacted the abomination solidly in the face. It let out a keening wail and shuddered with pain, briefly paralyzed.

It was the last noise it made. Three blades, one each from Aveline, Cullen, and Eingana, pierced its flesh in three different places. Eingana's second blade came crashing down on its head, splitting it open. The abomination's wail faltered and died away as it fell to its knees and then down to the ground, twitching in death.

A cheer went up from the guards as they dispatched the short-lived counterattack from the Fade. The fighters around the square broke into applause, praising the four who had engaged the abomination and ended its brief existence.

Anders sagged in exhaustion against his staff. Isabela reached for him in case he needed help standing, but he waved her away. The demonic threat was dealt with. Maker, he was tired. He needed to rest.

"Michael," he murmured. His eyes fell on the door to the Hawke estate across the square. How likely was he to be able to slip through the exuberant guards unnoticed?

"What?" Isabela asked.

"Michael," Anders said, louder. "Is he awake? Okay?"

Isabela bit her lip and looked at him with a little uncertainty in her eyes. "He's alright," she said. "I think he _really _doesn't like the magic cage thing, though. He's getting... antsy. Frustrated. I don't blame him."

Anders nodded. Someone had provided Eingana with some bandages, and she was dressing the wound on Fenris's arm while he watched her intently. Anders noted the care the Warden-Commander took to avoid touching Fenris's skin, and nodded. He knew from experience that Eingana was perceptive and deeply intuitive – she'd only barely met Fenris the day before and already seemed to know several of the most important things about him.

Aveline was exhausted and bloodied, but smiling as she graciously accepted the congratulations of her guardsmen. Cullen, on the other hand, was kneeling next to the ruined carcass of the abomination, deaf to the commendations of the men and women around him as he apparently searched for something. Anders thought he saw the glitter of a tear on the Knight-Captain's cheek, but it might have been an illusion.

The shadows had stretched over the square during the battle, the sun sunk below the blocky rooftops of Hightown. Anders tried to make his way around the perimeter of the square to the Hawke estate, but he was intercepted several times on the way by guards who wanted to thank him for his healing spell and the other magical assistance he'd provided. If any of them realized he wasn't a Circle mage, none said so. Perhaps having used magic openly in front of a templar, and the Knight-Captain to boot, was enough assurance for them as to his trustworthiness.

Eventually, Anders made it to the door. Eingana met him there. Isabela slipped inside ahead of them, and Fenris, his arm freshly bandaged, followed her.

"So," Anders said wryly to Eingana. "What was that you were saying earlier, before we were interrupted? Something about this route being safer than the passages in Darktown?"

Eingana rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Nothing like an unexpected attack by demons to keep you on your toes."

"At least they're more personable than darkspawn," Anders commented. Eingana nodded – she had no argument for that.

The guards began to disperse to their various destinations, some of them helping their injured comrades and others collecting the bodies of their dead. Aveline joined them by the door.

"Is anyone injured?" she asked.

"Fenris's arm was pretty bad, but I've dressed more wounds in battlefield conditions than anyone I know," Eingana said. "He'll be fine. Perhaps Anders could heal him later."

Anders snorted. "Like he'd let me!"

"And you, Warden-Commander?" Aveline asked.

"A few cuts and bruises," Eingana answered. "I'll be okay. Anders's spell took care of the worst of it."

Aveline nodded to Anders. "Thank you for that, Anders."

"You're welcome," Anders said a little warily, suspicious of her tone of voice. His eyes went to Cullen as he approached them. The templar was staring down at something in his hand.

"Knight-Captain," Aveline said as he reached them, with what sounded like genuine concern in her voice. "Are you... alright?"

Cullen looked up. His eyes were slightly red.

"Alive," he said. He shook his head and clenched his fist, dropping it and the unknown object within to his side.

"Warden-Commander," he said respectfully to Eingana. "It is a pleasure to see you again. I am grateful for your help."

Eingana smiled at him. "You too, Cullen. I'm glad you're okay."

Cullen smiled thinly. "Your leadership was exceptional, Guard-Captain," he said to Aveline, forestalling any further inquiry about himself. "Thank you for your help defending the city."

"And thank you for yours," she said. "I'm sorry about your friend."

Cullen's eyes flicked to the grisly sight of the dead abomination. He nodded, his face inscrutable. "He will be missed," he said quietly.

"Might you know what caused this?" Aveline asked him.

Cullen shook his head. "Since the tremors started in the night, there have been two major demon emergences like this one," he said. "I believe something has seriously weakened the Veil, but as of yet I am not sure what it is. The mages at the Circle are looking into it."

Both he and Aveline looked at Anders. The mage frowned and remained silent.

"A number of other incidents throughout the city today have been brought to my attention," Aveline said, speaking to Cullen but still looking at Anders. "Violent crimes have spiked for no readily apparent reason. Thefts, break-ins, murders – and now demon attacks."

"We experienced something similar at the Gallows," Cullen said, though he didn't elaborate. "We may not be out of the woods yet. Keep your men on high alert, Guard-Captain. They may yet be needed during the night."

Aveline nodded.

Cullen looked at Anders. "Thank you as well, Anders. We would surely have perished without your magic."

Aveline looked surprised that the Knight-Captain was openly acknowledging an apostate without the slightest indication that he intended to apprehend him. She looked between Anders and Cullen, her brow furrowing.

"You're welcome," Anders said gravely. "I was glad I could help." He felt like he should say something about Cullen's friend who had been possessed – apologize for failing to prevent the desire demon from emerging, perhaps – but he couldn't form the words. He couldn't help thinking of his own situation. Cullen's friend had been horrifyingly possessed right in front of him and slaughtered minutes later; at least Hawke was still alive, and there was some small hope of saving him from the entity that inhabited his body.

"I will send someone to deal with the abomination's body, and the residue left by the shades," Cullen said. He nodded respectfully to Eingana and Aveline. "Warden-Commander – Guard-Captain. May the Maker guide your paths, all of you."

He departed, and it was only as he was walking away that Anders noticed Cullen was walking with a slight limp and favouring his shoulder on the same side. He opened his mouth to call after him with an offer of healing, but Aveline cut him off.

"Anders," she said, "you're damn lucky he didn't haul you in."

Anders scowled at her. He was rather of the opinion that it was Cullen who was lucky, since Anders had not killed him to prevent him informing other, less amiable templars about his identity.

"It's only because you're involved with Hawke, you know," Aveline continued. "You'd best be careful."

"Enough, Aveline," Anders said shortly. "I didn't summon the demons. I have no idea where they came from. In case you didn't notice, I helped fight them, _and _I healed your guards."

"I wasn't accusing you of summoning any demons," Aveline said in an offended tone. "And I'm grateful for your help. But I wasn't exaggerating about the incidents in the city – and Cullen said something else has been going on at the Gallows. It seems very likely that this was caused by the incident in the cellars last night, doesn't it?"

"Yes, probably," Anders said irritably. "But I've told you already, I didn't intend for that to happen, and even if it hadn't, Hawke might have slaughtered half the city by now."

"It hardly matters, does it?" Eingana cut in. "There's nothing that can be done about it now. We cannot change the past, we can only adapt to the present."

"Indeed," said Aveline. "But I think there is something that can and should be done."

"What is that?" Eingana asked.

"I think the templars should be notified about what's going on with Hawke, and the measures we have taken to contain it – including the one that has weakened the Veil and endangered the entire city."

"No," Anders said forcefully, at once. "Absolutely not."

"Anders-" Aveline began.

"_No_," Anders said again, glaring at her. "Are you insane? They'll kill him! Not all templars are as reasonable and intelligent as Cullen is. They'll kill him while he sleeps, and if you bring them here you'll be putting Merrill and I in danger as well. Is that what you want?"

Aveline sighed. "The last thing I want is to put anyone else in danger, Anders, but you must admit that continuing to do nothing about Hawke is putting a great many more people in danger than just us."

"We aren't doing _nothing_," Anders argued. "Eingana and I were just at the Black Emporium, and we've found out what's possessing Hawke."

"Oh?" Aveline said curiously. "And?"

"It's a bit complicated," Eingana said. "It's not a demon, or a spirit, but it _is _from the Fade. We have all the information about it we need, and when Wynne arrives, I am confident that she will know what to do."

Aveline looked at Anders.

"Please, Aveline," Anders said, unable to keep the desperation from his voice. "Just let us... let us try. At least wait until Wynne arrives, and see what she has to say. She'll be here soon. She _will _know what to do."

"And when she arrives, if she determines that nothing can be done?" Aveline demanded pitilessly.

Anders's voice dropped to a whisper. "We can still save him. Please. I have to believe we can save him. Just a few days – that's all I ask."

Aveline pursed her lips and looked away. She shook her head and shrugged. "Fine. A few more days – because it's Hawke, because of everything he's done for this city, and because I know what he means to you. But..." she held up a hand, forestalling Anders's words of gratitude, "if this enchanter cannot solve the problem, and Hawke cannot be contained, something _will_ have to be done. There is nothing else for it."

"Whatever is done," Anders said harshly, "it will _not _involve templars. I will not allow it."

Aveline was unmoved by his threat. "We'll see, won't we?" she said.

**Ω**


	14. Weakness

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Weakness"**

Varric met Anders and Eingana in the antechamber as they removed their boots. Aveline came in with them, but left her boots on; she would only stay for a short time.

"Everything alright out there?" Varric asked.

"Same old Kirkwall," Anders said. He felt a curious numbness, a desire to sleep and to stop thinking. He was so tired. But the one thing he wanted more than sleep was to see Hawke. "How is he? Isabela said he was getting..."

There was no need to specify who he meant; Varric knew.

"Stir crazy?" the dwarf finished. "That's how I would describe it."

Eingana shuffled their sheath of notes copied from the Emergent Compendium. Anders wondered where she had kept them during the battle. Amazingly, the vellum was still crisp and unmarked – not even a bloodstain.

"I'll put these somewhere safe for Wynne to look at when she arrives," Eingana said. Anders nodded and followed her into the common room, Aveline at his heels.

Merrill's greeting was drowned out by a burst of strange noise and a flash of light.

"Anders!" Hawke barked. He pounded his fists against the magical force field, producing the noise again. The barrier flickered when he touched it.

"Let me out of this thing," Hawke demanded. "Right now." His eyes were wide, but mercifully normal. His forehand was banded with sweat.

Anders stared at him in concern. He'd seen Hawke excited during combat. He'd seen him enraged and lustful before being possessed and maddened with both at once afterwards. But this kind of agitation was entirely new. Hawke looked... desperate. Panic-stricken. Terrified.

"Michael," he said regretfully, "The last thing I want is to confine you against your will, but... you know I can't let you out. Not yet."

Hawke glared at him with a ferocious and entirely human rage in his eyes.

"You _will _let me out," he growled, "or so help me, when I get out myself I will _wring your scrawny little neck_!"

Ignoring Aveline's pointed look, Anders went to lean his staff against the wall and collapse gratefully into the chair beside the fireplace. Hawke's eyes followed him intently. His hands were flat against the barrier; it sparked and emitted a buzzing sound at the contact, but it remained solidly impenetrable. The manacles on Hawke's wrists were vibrating, and the metal collar around his neck crawled with glowing inscriptions – Sandal's handiwork.

Eingana slipped silently out of the room with the sheaf of papers. Hawke didn't appear to notice.

"Where's Bodahn?" Anders asked. Merrill began to answer, but Hawke cut her off.

"In the sitting room," he said testily. "I told him to offer our guests dinner. He did so. Fenris and Isabela are in there now. Anders-"

"Varric," Anders cut him off. "Why don't you and Merrill go and have something to eat? Thank you for watching Michael. I'm sorry we couldn't get back earlier."

Varric looked hesitant.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Merrill asked anxiously, her gaze flicking back and forth between Anders and Hawke. The warrior growled his frustration that Anders had ignored his request and punched the barrier as hard as he could. It flashed brightly and emitted a strange noise, like a soft thunderclap.

"Yes," Anders said. "We know what the problem is."

Merrill's relief was obvious. "That's wonderful! What is it? Can you fix it?"

Anders rubbed his forehead tiredly. "It's very complicated. There's not much we can do until Wynne gets here. I'll explain it later. Merrill, please – go with Varric into the sitting room? Just for a little while."

"That's alright, Anders," Merrill said kindly. "We ate already."

Varric coughed and stood up. "Daisy," he said. "I'm still a bit peckish. Come and sit with me?"

Merrill looked at him in surprise. "Surely can't _still_ be hungry," she said. "You practically _inhaled_-"

"Let's go, Daisy." Varric took Merrill by the arm and steered her out of the room. Anders sighed.

"Aveline," Hawke said in a strange voice that made Anders look up. "Please – make him let me out. I... I can't stand this. It's driving me crazy. I _can't_ be confined like this. Please!"

Anders was growing more concerned by the minute. Hawke had failed to move him with rage, and now he was getting desperate. He was clawing at the barrier like he was trying to dig through it. His fingernails were bleeding and his hands were burned. His arms and chest were shiny with sweat and he was starting to hyperventilate.

But possession-wise, he seemed perfectly fine – his pupils were normal and his voice held no trace of otherworldly resonance. Would it be so bad to let him out of the magical cage and stretch his legs?

Aveline could see him wavering. "I'm sorry, Hawke," she said. "I can't in good conscience condone releasing you until we have some guarantee that you're safe to be around. Just close your eyes, take a few deep breaths, and relax. You'll be fine."

"I'm perfectly safe to be around!" Hawke cried, the pitch of his voice rising. "_Look_ at me – I'm in complete control of myself! I didn't mean that thing about wringing Anders's neck – I just was angry, I _swear_ I won't attack anyone, and if I do you can just knock me out again. Come on!"

Anders had never imagined he would hear Hawke _asking_ to be knocked out. It wrenched at his heart to see his lover so unsettled.

"If only it were that simple," Aveline said softly. She seemed to genuinely regret what she was saying. "I'm sorry, Hawke. I sincerely wish that you needn't be confined like this, but it's just too dangerous."

"No!" Hawke yelled, pounding his fists against the magical cage. It flashed rhythmically with his strikes. The manacles on his wrists were still vibrating. "No, you have to let me out! I'm not dangerous! _You have to let me out_!"

"Aveline," Anders muttered. "Surely it wouldn't-"

"_No_, Anders."

"Look at him," Anders said to her under his breath, so that Hawke couldn't hear. "Those manacles should make it impossible for him to move his arms fast enough to pound on the barrier like he's doing. He's already broken some of the enchantments by himself. The resistance the thing inside him built up to my magic hasn't entirely faded. It's not impossible that he'll break through the rest the magic eventually, given the state he's in."

"Doesn't that just prove how dangerous he is? What point are you trying to make, Anders?"

"Why not let him out for just a little while?" Anders said. "The enchantments are also suppressing the spirit." He refrained from going into details about the nuances of the entity's exact nature for the sake of expediency. "If we let him out he'll calm down. The spirit should remain suppressed for a time. He needs to _eat_, eventually. And then – maybe after he falls asleep – we can trap him again and renew the magic."

Aveline stared at him, considering his words. Anders waited. Hawke was squinting at them, trying to make out what they were saying. At last Aveline nodded.

"But I want to you tell the Warden-Commander what you're doing," she said. "And only proceed if she agrees it's a good idea. And he must be watched _at all times, _Anders. I would stay and do it myself, but I must return to the barracks. _Someone _must prevent the city from falling into chaos."

"Fine," Anders said, deliberately ignoring her barbed tone. "Thank you, Aveline."

Aveline looked at the warrior hovering in the magical cage. He was clutching his temples as if suffering from a terrible headache, staring at her with wide, blank eyes.

"Goodbye for now, Hawke," Aveline said. "Be safe." She departed, ignoring Hawke's bitter, hysterical laugh.

Anders approached the enchanted cage and looked up at Hawke, suspended several feet in the air. He raised his palm to press it against the barrier, causing it to flicker and hum. Hawke reached down to put his larger hand over Anders's splayed fingers, but the warmth of the magical wall prevented any contact between them.

"Anders," Hawke said, and Anders was shocked to see tears in his eyes. "Please. I... I just want to touch you. I won't..." he choked. "I won't lose control if it's just for a moment. Just your hand. Please."

"I will," Anders whispered, suppressing his own heartache for Hawke's sake. "I just need to talk to Eingana first. Just hang in there for a few more minutes, Michael... my love."

Hawke looked away and closed his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. "Soon," he said in a hushed, breathless voice. "Soon. A few minutes. Just a few minutes. Yes..."

"Varric," Anders called. The dwarf appeared at once, in the doorway to the sitting room. "Can you stay with him for a little bit while I find the Warden-Commander?"

"Sure, Blondie," Varric said.

"Thank you."

Anders set off through the mansion, calling Eingana's name. He eventually found her in the drawing room on the far side of the first floor. She appeared to be fiddling with some of the books in a large wooden bookcase, stuffed with volumes from floor to ceiling.

"What are you doing?" Anders asked curiously, and she beckoned him over.

"I've hidden the notes in this book," she said in a low voice, indicating one of the leather bindings on the shelf.

Anders looked closely and read the title aloud: "'_Songs of Old Marches: Inscriptions collected by Philliam, a Bard!_' Huh. Alright, then. Why the secrecy?"

"I thought it would be better if only you and I knew where it was," she said. "You know... just in case."

"In case Michael snaps and tries to destroy the information, or torture its location out of someone else?" Anders said belligerently.

"Well... yes."

Anders shook his head and shoved his annoyance aside. He wasn't even sure _why _he was annoyed. It was a wise precaution, really.

"Right. Good idea," he said. "By the way – I'm going to let him out."

Eingana turned to him in shock. "What? Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Anders looked at her pleadingly. "Just for a little while. Eingana, he's going crazy. I think he's claustrophobic or something. He's having panic attacks, but he hasn't lost control. He's reminding me of how _I_ get in dark, cramped spaces. His eyes are normal and his voice is normal and I don't smell rancid saffron at all."

"Could you even smell anything through that barrier?"

"The barrier is weakening," Anders plowed on, ignoring her question. "It's supposed to make it difficult and tiring for him to move, but he seems to have overcome that rather easily since we left. The antsier he gets, the more he'll panic and try to get out. If we leave him in there as he is, he might break the enchantment all on his own, or his agitation might even stir up the entity enough to bring it out and it will blast its way free with magic. And then we'll _really _be in trouble."

Eingana was nodding, watching him carefully. "So what's your plan?"

"Let him out. I'll stay close to him and calm him down, reassure him. I'll tell him what we've discovered and that Wynne will be here tomorrow or the next day. When he's in a stable state of mind again, hopefully he'll be able to fall asleep and get some rest. Then, I'll re-enchant him to keep him under control in case the entity spontaneously emerges while he sleeps, like it did last night."

Eingana nodded slowly. "Okay – but if he loses control while you're with him? _Before_ he calms down or falls asleep?"

"That's why I'll want you and maybe Varric to be right in the next room," Anders said. "If he does lose control, I'll defend myself, but it's clear that at least some of the resistance he built up to my magic has lingered. Just... stand by, in case I need you. I doubt you'll be able to prevent him from realizing you're there – he's like that. But I..."

He looked away and his voice lowered. "I'd like some time alone with him. Even if it's just a superficial aloneness. I love him, Eingana."

Eingana sighed and shook her head. "This is dangerous, Anders. I'll do as you ask, but I hope you know what you're doing. I'm worried your emotions may be clouding your judgment."

"I can see why you'd think that," Anders said. "I'm aware that's a risk, and I'm trying my best to be rational. But I don't want Wynne to show up and save him only to find he's been completely mentally broken by his ordeal."

"Alright," Eingana said. "It is rather a lot of stress for any man to go through."

"Undoubtedly," Anders said. "Of course, Michael Hawke isn't just _any _man. But sometimes even Champions need to be saved."

**ασυνέχεια**

When Anders and Eingana returned to the common room, they found Varric polishing Bianca and Merrill in the midst of telling a story about Fen'Harel, the trickster god of the Dalish pantheon, to Hawke and his Mabari hound. Reaver sat upright, watching Merrill attentively. Hawke had his eyes closed, but he was clearly listening, as he smiled slightly when Reaver barked at Merrill to continue. Even so, he wasn't completely relaxed – his hands were squeezed together, flexing and itching as he took forced deep, slow breaths.

Anders approached the containment field as Merrill was finishing her tale.

"Ever since, Fen'Harel thinks twice about playing his tricks when dogs are on guard," she said solemnly.

Reaver wagged his tale and barked happily.

"I'm so glad you enjoyed it," Merrill said brightly. "So few animals are interested in Dalish history."

"How many animals do you tell?" Hawke asked, opening his eyes. He immediately saw Anders nearby and reached out impulsively to touch the barrier, renewing its buzzing.

"Well... not many, truth be told," Merrill admitted. "Halla are wonderful creatures and very friendly – to elves, anyway – but they can be downright standoffish if you don't brush them every day... and their eyes always glazed over whenever Hahren Paivel started to talk..."

Her voice trailed off wistfully, eyes distant with reminiscence about her clan. Hawke had stopped listening to her the moment he opened his eyes; he stared at Anders, his breathing starting to quicken again as he waited.

"Blondie?" Varric said cautiously as Anders raised his hands to touch the barrier. "What are you doing?"

The barrier pulsed at Anders's touch. It began to flash in a regular rhythm in time with the mage's heartbeat. He closed eyes and focused his magic.

"Brace yourself, Michael," Anders murmured.

Merrill looked over at him. She stood up suddenly. "Anders – you're letting him out? Is that safe?"

"Stay calm, Merrill," Eingana said as she entered the room. "Hawke will be fine for now – let's give him and Anders some time alone."

"I'm confused," Varric said. "Isn't that exactly what everyone's been saying we _shouldn't _do?"

Hawke was barely paying attention to the conversation. He was staring at his wrists as the sparkly quality in the air converged on the manacles and appeared to be absorbed into them.

"I'll explain," Eingana said, gesturing for Varric and Merrill to exit through the other door. "Everything will be fine, but if you don't mind, I'd like you two to stay with me in the next room – just in case we're needed."

Merrill looked alarmed, and Varric concerned, but both acquiesced to the Warden-Commander's request and left the room. Eingana glanced once at Anders before following them. Her wordless, pointed gaze communicated more to Anders than any warning might have. He nodded to her and turned back to Hawke.

The barrier let out an increasingly high-pitched buzz, culminating in a _thwump _as it vanished entirely. Hawke fell several feet and landed on one knee with a much louder _thud_. The manacles on his ankles and wrists snapped open and clattered to the floor.

Anders stepped back and waited. Now he would learn if his emotions truly _had _clouded his judgment.

For a moment Hawke was still, poised on one knee, hands splayed on the floor beside the open manacles. Then he let out a long, relieved exhalation and stood up slowly. Anders watched the warrior rise before him; his eyes remained green, and the panic-stricken look was mercifully gone from his face.

Hawke stared at him for a moment, then moaned in relief and lunged forward. Anders experienced a moment of terror, thinking Hawke was attacking him, but the warrior only enfolded him in a crushing hug.

"Thank you," he cried. "Anders... I'm so sorry... thank you."

Hawke didn't know his own strength – his embrace was almost painfully tight, and the enchanted metal collar around his neck was digging painfully into his sternum, but Anders didn't mind. He felt no malice from his lover, and the closeness was welcome. He returned the hug gladly and closed his eyes, savouring Hawke's warmth.

"I know it can only be for a little while," Hawke mumbled against Anders's neck. "I know... you'll have to put me back in that thing eventually. Thank you for trusting me outside it." He squeezed the mage even more tightly for a moment, inhaling deeply. "Nnh... you smell so _good_."

Anders couldn't help noticing that Hawke smelled just as good to him as he apparently did to Hawke. The surge of desire he felt at the warrior's proximity, the warmth of his body, the bunching of his muscles beneath Anders's hands, was both unexpected and bittersweet. The juxtaposition of the sheer power of his urges and the utter impossibility of fulfilling them was bitingly painful.

Anders sniffed again discreetly as he and Hawke disengaged from one another, though Hawke held onto his hands. There was a certain rankness to his strong, musky scent that Anders could tell others would find rather less enticing than he did. The warrior had been hovering all day, imprisoned by enchantment, sweating his anxiety; and before that he'd gone on a possessed rampage dressed in only his smallclothes, which he still wore underneath his trousers.

"Are you alright, Michael?" Anders asked, thinking he would ultimately steer the conversation towards a tactful suggestion to bathe. "Did you know before today that you were claustrophobic?"

Hawke let go of the mage's hands and rolled his shoulders in a motion that was half shrugging, half shaking his head. "I don't think it was claustrophobia. I've been in enclosed spaces plenty of times before. Sometimes dark, cramped, dusty spaces. Don't you remember that time in the Deep Roads?" he added with a momentary gleam in his eye.

Anders nodded thoughtfully. The memory of their first intimate encounter, buried under a cave-in in the Deep Roads of all places, hardly calmed his libido, so he tried not to think about it in too much detail. He was the one who had panicked then, not Hawke. And there had been no sign of discomfort from the warrior when they had traveled through the dank lyrium smugglers' tunnels in pursuit of Ser Alrik, whereas Anders had only kept himself calm by focusing on the burn of Justice's fury inside him. That line of thought led to dark places, so he forced himself away from it.

"Perhaps it was the magic," he mused, following Hawke as the warrior went over to sit on the stairs. "Or the manacles." _There must be a way to complete the enchantment without them_, he mused.

Hawke, rubbing his wrists, eyed the discarded manacles with hate in his eyes. "That's rather more plausible, yes. Do you _have _to use those?" he asked, clearly thinking along the same lines as Anders.

"I'll see if I can work on a way to... to remove them from the equation," Anders said carefully, not wanting to make any promises. He sat down next to Hawke and decided to change the subject, gently guiding Hawke's thoughts away from his confinement. "You must be hungry... you haven't eaten anything all day."

Hawke shrugged. "A little. I'll eat later."

"How about a hot bath?" Anders suggested. "A nice relaxing soak would do you good."

"Mmm." Hawke's eyes closed and he leaned his head against Anders's shoulder. "That _does _sound good. And food afterwards."

"What do you want?" Anders asked. "I'll ask Bodahn to prepare it for later."

Hawke leaned back and smirked at him, some of his old acerbic wit surfacing. "You're as Fereldan as I am," he said. "You tell me."

"Meat and potatoes?"

"My thoughts exactly." Hawke squeezed his knee. His eyes wandered across the room and his smirk faded.

"Go run the bath," Anders said. "I'll meet you up there."

Hawke nodded and stood up to climb the stairs. Anders pushed himself off the last riser and entered the sitting room.

Fenris and Isabela were polishing off plates of lamb chops, steamed broccoli, and mashed potatoes, he on a stool and she perched on the arm of a couch. Varric and Merrill were sitting on the other couch; Varric seemed to be in the midst of a story that had Merrill blushing and giggling. Eingana sat in one of the armchairs with a journal open in her lap, fountain pen scratching busily. She looked up at Anders with a raised eyebrow.

"He's gone to take a bath," Anders said by way of explaining his choice to leave Hawke alone. "He's completely fine. I left the collar around his neck, and it's still suppressing the entity fairly well, as far as I can tell. It might even be enough to keep him calm until Enchanter Wynne arrives. I'll go up in a minute to keep an eye on him, but I think we'll be okay."

Everyone else in the room had paused in what they were doing to listen. Eingana smiled and nodded. "Good. Alright then."

"Where's Bodahn, do you know?" Anders asked.

"Here, Messere," the dwarf said, appearing behind him. Anders moved aside so Bodahn could enter the sitting room. "Is the Master... well? He seemed agitated in that magical field you had him in earlier. I passed through the room three times, inquiring after his health twice, and he never even seemed to notice I was there."

"Really?" Anders asked. He hadn't known that. It was slightly worrying, but it could be chalked up to Hawke's lack of focus due to his apparent phobia of magical containment. Still, he should ask the warrior about it. Later, he decided.

"That's strange, but I don't think it's anything to worry about just yet," Anders said. "He's fine now that he's out, and I think the risk of him... snapping... again is low, for now."

Bodahn retrieved Fenris's empty plate, smiling at the elf's nod of thanks, and turned back to Anders. "I'm glad he's okay, Messere Anders," he said. "The Warden-Commander tells me you've discovered the nature of his condition, and that the Lady Wynne will be arriving soon to help."

"That's true," Anders said. "I'm reasonably confident that Michael will soon be back to... relatively normal."

"I'm glad to hear that. Is there anything I can get for you or Master Hawke?"

"Michael's going to take a bath," Anders said. "He'll probably be about an hour, but he'd like a meal when he's finished."

"Mmm," Isabela piped up from across the room. "Hawke will _love _this lamb. It's amazing, Bodahn! You are a master chef. I could use a dwarf like you on my ship." She paused. "If I had a ship. _When_ I get a ship."

Bodahn chuckled. "I'm afraid the pirate's life is not for me, milady, but I appreciate the offer."

"I'm serious, this is amazing," Isabela said. "What kind of seasoning did you use? It's like... it's like an orgasm in my mouth. Maybe you _shouldn't _give this to Hawke – it might set him off again."

Anders rubbed his forehead and suppressed an annoyed grimace. Fenris gave Isabela a withering look. Eingana raised an eyebrow; Varric coughed. Merrill looked baffled, and seemed on the verge of asking for clarification in her usual oblivious manner.

"Er," Bodahn said uncertainly. "I... think you overestimate my cooking abilities, milady."

Isabela looked up and seemed to realize the effect her words had had. "Oh... I'm sorry," she said. "That was a bit tasteless, wasn't it? My bad." There was a brief pause, and then she grinned and started laughing. "Hah! _Tasteless, _get it?"

"Just stop, Rivaini," Varric said, but he was smiling too. Merrill still looked confused, and in the interest of forestalling her inevitable awkward questions, Anders spoke to Bodahn again.

"Thank you for all your help during this... crisis, Bodahn," he said. "I appreciate that you've stayed on with us when you have ample reason to leave, and I'm grateful that you don't seem to be taking personally what Hawke did to you."

"Oh, it's fine, Messere," Bodahn said modestly. "The Warden-Commander explained it to me. I know that wasn't _really_ Master Hawke – I've served him for long enough to get to know him. He can be... abrasive at times, but he's always been kind to me, and especially to Sandal. There aren't many who would take in a strange pair of dwarves like my boy and I. Master Hawke is a rare man... he's earned my loyalty and my trust, and I daresay my affection as well."

Anders brushed away an unexpected tear from his eye, touched by the dwarf's words. He reached out to shake the dwarf's hand. "Thank you, Bodahn."

"I'll have a hot meal ready for the both of you in a little over an hour," Bodahn said, and made his way out.

"Wait," said Isabela. "Can I have some mo-?"

She was too late; Bodahn had left the room.

"Balls," Isabela said with a sigh. Anders couldn't help laughing a little.

"Isabela does love her meat," Eingana commented nonchalantly without looking up from her journal.

"Oh, I do... but there is so much _more _than just meat," Isabela replied slyly. Eingana met her eyes, a subtle smile creeping across her lips.

"Ahem," Varric coughed loudly. "Where was I, Daisy?"

"You'd finished, actually," said Merrill. "It was a very interesting story, Varric. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at that tailor in Lowtown again without giggling."

"Oh, that's far from the end of the story," Varric said smoothly. "No shit, there I was-"

Anders turned to Fenris as he rose from his stool and replaced it near the wall where it usually sat. The surly elf met his eyes as he made his way towards the doorway.

"Fenris," Anders said guardedly. "Thank you for helping with the battle, outside. Bloody demons are popping up all over the city, or so I'm told."

"Lucky for us this city is full of mages who have experience controlling demons, eh?" Fenris said sardonically.

Anders was too tired and his mind too full of other things to get into an argument, so he let the snark slide. He indicated with a gesture the bloodstained bandage on the elf's arm. "I can heal that, if you like. Even this long after the injury, I can make it good as new – no scar at all."

Fenris looked at him and said nothing.

"Unless... you want to keep the scar," Anders added, unsure if the elf was offended or not. "For whatever reason."

Fenris watched him for another moment, and then said "Very well." He extended his arm.

Anders was shocked. Fenris had never let him heal him before except in dire emergencies. He concealed his surprise and wove a restorative spell between his hands. It was a minor one of the many in his vast mental library – he was still exhausted from the battle outside, after all – but it was more than potent enough to sooth and repair Fenris's wound.

"Scar? No scar?" Anders asked with his hand poised above the bandage, flickering with azure light.

Fenris waved his other hand. "Irrelevant."

Anders nodded and opened his fingers, letting the magic flow forth. The deep blue aura spread over the elf's arm, creeping under the bandage and rapidly knitting the slash back together.

He withdrew his hand as Fenris reached over to unwrap the bandage. It fell away, revealing the elf's smooth, dark skin unbroken but for his lyrium brand, the only sign of the wound a very faint scar.

Fenris turned his arm this way and that, flexing his hand as if testing its function. "Thank you... Anders."

Anders couldn't help raising his eyebrows a little, surprised again. Fenris hardly ever called him by his name – it was mostly "mage" or "fool." Was it the residual camaraderie of the recent battle? Their shared connection to Hawke and his present trying circumstances? Or was the obdurate elf finally warming up to him?

Did he even _want_ that? The elf could be a real bastard. And he was certainly an avowed enemy of all mages.

Well, it hardly mattered. Less antagonism amongst the people he knew was one less source of stress. "You're welcome," he said.

Fenris nodded. "I'm going back to my mansion, but... if you need me, send the dog."

"Thank you," Anders replied. "I will."

Fenris waved to the others and disappeared through the common room and out the front door without another word.

"I'm heading out too," Isabela said, standing up and stretching. "Though I hate to eat and run. I told Bodahn I loved his cooking, didn't I? Tell him again for me."

Anders rolled his eyes as she made her way over to him. She paused in the doorway. Anders met her gaze steadily. Her eyes flicked to Eingana and back to Anders.

"Hawke's going to be okay, right?" Isabela asked in a low voice, out of earshot of Eingana, Merrill, and Varric.

Anders searched her face for some clue as to how she really felt, but her concern seemed perfectly sincere. He answered her honestly.

"I don't know, Isabela," he said. "The... the thing that has a hold over him is very rare, very powerful, very old. I'd never heard of its like until the Warden-Commander and I found the reference today. She says Enchanter Wynne will know more, and they actually fought and killed one before, but that was in its own manifested form – not a possessed host."

Isabela chewed her lip. She knew – not as intimately as he did, but she did know – that spirit possession was irreversible. Her eyes darted again over to where Eingana was sitting.

"And the healer will be here soon?" she asked.

"Likely tomorrow," Anders said. "Early the next morning if not."

The pirate nodded. "Okay. Well – I'm always here to help. For you _and _that hunky warrior guy of yours. I don't know how much good I'll be against a demon, or whatever the bloody Void that thing is that's got him. But I know I want it dead. Or even if... even if you just want to talk. You need me, you send for me – got it?"

Anders nodded slowly, and on impulse reached out to hug Isabela. She stiffened in surprise, but then returned the gesture. She patted his back affectionately.

"Try not to die," she said as they parted. "Hawke taking a bath..." She shivered theatrically. "Mmm. I just hope you can control _your_self, Sparkly."

Anders smiled wanly. So did he.

The pirate said her farewells to the others and sauntered away, out to the dark of the Hightown evening.

"Watch out for demons!" Anders called after her as she entered the antechamber, and she waved without looking back.

He tilted his head to listen, and hearing the expected running of water on the second floor, Anders made to head for the stairs. Varric caught his attention first.

"Blondie," he said, and Anders turned to them.

"Daisy and I were just talking," the dwarf said. "We can stay over here tonight, if you want. There must be plenty of room, and we can be on hand if you need help from the lady with the blood magic, or from Bianca and I."

Merrill nodded. "It would just be for a little while," she said. "The healer will be here soon anyway, and then – well, then this will hopefully all go away. Wouldn't that be nice, if everything just worked out so perfectly! I'm sure it won't. It never does, does it? But... well, you know. We can always hope."

Indeed. "That would be great," Anders said, relieved at the idea. He and Eingana together were formidable, but they hadn't been able to stop Hawke the previous night. If the worst happened and the entity emerged again, reinforcements might make all the difference. "Just get Bodahn to show you where there are empty rooms. You might need to whip up some linens."

Varric nodded, and Anders caught Eingana's eye. She'd closed her journal with a soft noise.

"Alright," Anders said quietly. "Bath time for the possessed warrior."

"I'll be nearby," Eingana said, and Anders nodded his thanks. He headed up the stairs, crossed the mezzanine and entered Hawke's bedroom. Hawke was standing just outside the bathing chamber, limned by the warm glow of the candlelight within. He was in the process of removing his trousers as Anders entered.

Hawke looked up as Anders sat down on the bed. "You going to join me?" he asked, stepping out of his trousers and dropping them into a nearby woven basket of dirty laundry. Outside the room, Anders heard Eingana's footsteps on the stairs and then on the mezzanine as she entered her own room, leaving the door open.

Anders looked at him in surprise. "Join you... in the bath?"

"No," Hawke said sarcastically. "Join me on a pleasant night-time stroll up to the Viscount's Keep."

Anders was sorely tempted. His gaze slipped almost involuntarily down Hawke's muscular body, his eyes lingering over the bulge in his shorts. He wanted to say yes. He _really _wanted to say yes.

"No," he said. "I don't think that's a good idea, Michael."

Hawke came closer to him, clearly aware of the effect he was having and enjoying it. "You don't, eh? You know, you don't exactly smell like cinnamon and roses, Anders. You could use a bath, too."

Anders winced. Had he been that transparent?

"Michael... you know why we shouldn't," he said, somehow managing to keep his voice level, though his eyes were locked on the tuft of hair just above the waistband of Hawke's shorts. Close enough to reach out and touch... run his fingers through it...

Then Hawke's had was under his chin, tilting his head up to meet his eyes.

"You know what I think?" he said in a low, rough voice. "I think we should do it anyway."

His eyes were green.

Anders almost groaned aloud. He was simultaneously elated by this resurgence of Hawke's old aggressive, domineering self and deeply turned on by it. His heartbeat had accelerated; blood was pumping through his groin in a palpable rhythm. _I really shouldn't_. But he wanted to... oh, how he wanted to.

Hawke read the indecision on his face and seemed to deflate a little. He let go of Anders's chin and turned away. "You're right," he muttered. "I'm... sorry. It's probably a completely stupid idea that will just end up... you know... like last time."

"Can you tell?" Anders asked tentatively, unwilling to give up so easily and a little disappointed that Hawke had backed off. "When it's emerging, I mean? Can you stay in control?"

Hawke spread his hands in a gesture of frustrated ignorance. "I don't know, Anders," he said bluntly. "Last night, I was sure I was in control of myself the entire time. I never felt any urge to hack you up, sexually or otherwise. It was... it was just you and me, and it was amazing." His hand drifted down over himself at the memory; Anders's eyes were locked on his questing fingers, wishing Hawke would turn back towards him so he could see more.

"But we both know how that turned out," Hawke went on. He turned back to Anders and folded his arms across his chest. "You tell me if we can do this," he said. "You're the mage who claims to know what's really wrong with me. What do _you_ think?"

Anders's eyes went to the collar around Hawke's neck. Its surface crawled with dwarven runes, their glow soft but steady. If the entity was actively trying to emerge and take over Hawke's body, the magic would strengthen in response, and it would continue to deny the foreign influence to the maximum strength the enchantment could exert. Whether that was enough to contain the thing, Anders had no idea. He had no wish to test its limits, either, especially with Hawke free and unbound by the rest of the spell.

If they proceeded, Anders thought, he would be putting not only himself in terrible danger – let alone whatever adverse affects the possession was having on Hawke's body – but also Eingana, Merrill, Varric, Bodahn, and Sandal. The truly wise thing to do would be to deny himself until the situation had been resolved, one way or the other. What he _should_ do was go and sleep in his clinic where he wouldn't be tempted.

But Anders could feel his desires overpowering his reason. The wisdom of experience was rapidly crumbling under the weight of rationalization. He wondered if he would survive to regret his weakness.

He stood up and went over to the door, pushing it almost all the way closed but leaving it slightly ajar. He could yell to Eingana if he needed help, he told himself. Of course, he'd have a hard time calling for help if Hawke decided to just drown him in the bathtub. Anders pretended not to have considered that scenario with a twinge of guilt.

Hawke watched him begin to unfasten his robe with a knowing smirk on his face. He bent down to remove his shorts and dropped them into the laundry basket. He stood there for a moment, gloriously naked, watching the mage.

"Meet you in there," he said huskily, and entered the bathing chamber. Anders watched his butt until it was out of view. He finished removing his robe and glanced at the doorway. He heard the distant murmur of Varric and Merrill talking downstairs. Eingana was in the next room. Hawke was controlling himself and the entity was suppressed with powerful enchantments. They would be fine.

Naked himself, Anders was about to follow Hawke into the bathing chamber when his eyes fell on the laundry basket. He reached out to retrieve Hawke's sweat-damp shorts. He held them in his hands for a moment, then brought them to his nose and inhaled deeply. The musky, masculine scent was exquisitely erotic and tinged with something else – blood, and the faintest possible hint of saffron. It stirred the blood in his loins powerfully, and he shuddered with delight and anticipation. He dropped the shorts back into the basket and followed his lover.

**Ω**


	15. Heat

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Heat"**

Hawke was already reclining in the stone bathtub when Anders entered the chamber. Anders draped the towel he'd brought in with him over a hook in the wall and stepped up to the edge of the carved basin. It would be large enough for both of them, but only barely.

Hawke watched him calmly as Anders lowered himself gingerly into the steaming water. The temperature made him wince at first, but as he gradually grew accustomed to the water it became pleasant and deeply soothing. Anders leaned against the rim of the basin next to Hawke with a satisfied sigh, feeling the tension in his muscles unwind and some of the caked sweat and grime all over his body begin to loosen.

"This is so... _relaxing_," Anders said complacently. His eyes closed in bliss. "We must do this more often." He stretched luxuriously.

"Every night, if you want," Hawke murmured agreeably next to him. "After I've been exorcised, of course."

Anders's eyes opened. Of course.

"You going to wash my back?" Hawke said softly in his ear. Anders felt a wet tongue flick teasingly along the back of his ear, sending a twinge of erogenous delight down his neck. In the water between them, his hand found Hawke's and their fingers intertwined.

"Mmm... in a little while," Anders replied. "And anywhere else you feel dirty and can't reach as easily as I could."

"Uh huh?" Hawke said slyly. "And are you going to let me return the favour this time?"

Anders leaned over and kissed the side of Hawke's mouth. "I was hoping you'd say that."

As if his words had set the warrior off, Hawke grabbed him with his free hand and kissed him back, but harder. Anders felt Hawke's tongue forcing its way into his mouth and he parted his lips to receive it with a thrill of excitement.

Hawke shifted, sending heated water sloshing over both of them, and pushed himself up and over Anders to straddle his waist. He kissed him again, better able to probe the mage with his tongue from his superior position. He kept hold of Anders's left hand with his right and squeezed it while his other hand gripped Anders by his chin.

Anders could feel Hawke's stiff length against his abdomen. His own cock was hardening in response to the warrior's aggressive advance. He could barely move –Hawke's powerful weight on top of him kept him pinned, and his fiery kiss made it nearly impossible to move his head. He didn't care. It was exactly what he wanted. Hawke had him right where he wanted him, and that was fine with Anders.

Anders squeezed back with his hand in Hawke's grip and ran his other up the warrior's meaty thigh, over his butt and up his back. He avoided touching the metal collar, not wanting to remind Hawke of his confinement, and brought his hand to rest on the back of the warrior's head, fingers entwined in his thick hair.

Hawke finally lifted his head, but leaned his forehead against Anders's. Their eyes were inches apart. Anders was elated to see that Hawke's were entirely normal – his pupils weren't any more dilated that would be expected from the dimness of the candlelight that suffused the chamber. How he had missed this kind of intimacy! Pleasant, soothing, no hint of danger... not life-threatening danger, at least. The warmth of the candlelight and the actual heat of the bath water seemed to caress him, lulling him into a relaxed but eager state of anticipation – but as warm as it was, Hawke's body against his was warmer still.

"Michael," Anders breathed as his fingers danced almost unconsciously down Hawke's neck and over his chest. "You are... so hot right now."

"Yeah?" Hawke said with a lustful smile. He grabbed Anders's hand and pushed it down to his side with a splash. He now had both the mage's hands pinned by his own. Hawke's tongue swept along his jaw as Anders tried to get at least one of his hands free – he wanted to touch his lover's body, to feel its contours, absorb its heat – but he couldn't. Hawke's strength was far superior to his. Even his magical options were limited with his hands so confined, and Anders wouldn't dare attack Hawke with magic except in self-defense. His relative powerlessness, his vulnerability to the warrior's desires, was just as deeply arousing as it always was.

_What power does this man have over me?_ Anders wondered as his eyes closed, shuddering at the exquisite sensations of Hawke's lips and tongue roaming over his neck. _What is it about him that makes me want to submit my entire being to his will...?_

Hawke's teeth grazed his collarbone. He squeezed his hands, just hard enough to hurt, reminding Anders that even though Hawke was the one paying attention to _him_, he was still in complete control.

Hawke's mouth reached Anders's right nipple and closed over it. His teeth gently twisted the ring pierced through his flesh, causing the mage to inhale sharply at the sensation – a curious mix of painful pinch and erotic pleasure. Hawke did it again, harder this time, and Anders let out a soft noise of delightful discomfort. He squirmed under Hawke's weight, wanting desperately to touch him, run his fingers through his hair, stroke him in a frantic, ecstatic rhythm; still Hawke would not let him move. Anders groaned in frustration, and Hawke smirked.

He couldn't go much lower on the mage's body without submerging his head, so Hawke finally let go of Anders's hands and lifted him bodily by the hips to sit on the stone ledge of the tub.

"Up," Hawke grunted.

Anders was startled and nearly fell backwards, but grabbed the lip of the basin with his newly freed hands just in time. Before he could do anything else, Hawke had grabbed his wrists and immobilized his hands again.

"Sneaky," Anders commented, provoking a mischievous smile from Hawke. Anders's heart was still beating fast from nearly falling backwards onto the stone floor. The air of the bathing chamber was steamy from the hot water, but it still felt bitingly cool after the encompassing heat.

Hawke was now poised between his spread legs, kissing and sucking on various areas of his abdomen. He released one of Anders's hands to run his own over the mage's chest, tweaking his nipple rings whenever he passed over them. Anders curled his freed arm affectionately around Hawke's head, stroking him softly behind the ear and leaning down to inhale his musky scent from his unruly, still mostly dry hair. Hawke grabbed his wrist and restrained it again as his head moved lower.

Anders tensed with anticipation as Hawke's tongue teased the skin of his waist just above the tuft of his pubic hair. His throbbing erection was pressed against his belly by its own stiffness. Hawke's tongue flicked briefly over the head and down the length of his shaft, once across his balls, and then back up over the sensitive joint between his pelvis and inner thigh. The tantalizing closeness of Hawke's tongue to his hard, eager rod coupled with the intimate sensations on the surrounding skin made Anders throw his head back with a moan.

"Anders... do that thing with the electricity," Hawke murmured against Anders's thigh, grazing it with his lips and teeth. His voice was muffled and Anders had to ask him to repeat himself. He smiled ruefully once he understood.

"Michael... we're in a bathtub," he said. "You more than me. Much as I love making you tingle and moan and squirm like you did last time... I'd rather not slip my fingers by a few inches and fatally electrocute one or both of us."

Hawke raised his head and looked at him, mildly chagrined. "Oh... yeah." He arched one eyebrow. "I guess that _would_ be bad. ...I can do without."

Anders smiled and laughed as Hawke suddenly went down on his cock with gusto. "I'm – _uunnhh_ – glad to hear that! Ooh..."

Hawke caught the head of his dick with his upper lip and pulled it away from Anders's belly. He engulfed its entire length in his mouth in a moment, then pulled off and did it again. His lips and tongue worked furiously, swirling around the shaft and adding a subtle, sucking pressure to his rhythmic bob. Anders couldn't help his drawn-out moan, but he tried to limit how loud he was so as not to disturb Eingana in the next room.

"Ohh, Michael..." Anders sighed. "That's amazing..."

Hawke released his hands to run his own along Anders's thighs. He spent some time using his thumbs to massage the joint between the mage's thigh and pelvis. Anders, his hands freed, buried his fingers in Hawke's hair again. He unconsciously began to shift his hips against Hawke's mouth, matching and opposing his rhythm to thrust himself in deeper.

After a few minutes, Anders was breathing rapidly and his skin was slick with sweat. Hawke showed no sign of tiring – he hadn't been lying the night before when he'd said he knew how to please a man, Anders thought hazily. His lover's mouth, tongue, and hands produced intense, deeply pleasurable sensations that seemed to ripple through his entire body. He would have liked to be able to reach more of Hawke's body, but his mind was clouded by pleasure and he couldn't bring himself to ask Hawke to stop. In fact, the only sounds he was capable of producing were moans and the occasional curse word or "Oh, _Maker_..."

Hawke's eyes were fixed on Anders's as his mouth moved up and down on his cock. Anders couldn't look away, mesmerized by Hawke's intent expression and the sight of his own cock sliding in and out of the warrior's mouth as much as the breathtaking sensations his actions produced.

"Nnnh... Michael... I'm going to finish soon," Anders panted, his weakened arms trembling, keeping him upright on the stone ledge. Hawke didn't answer, just kept staring at him and sucking him off.

"Unnnh..."

Just as Anders was closing in on an intense climax, Hawke pulled off him suddenly and let his cock slap wetly back against his stomach. His hands flashed out to grab Anders's wrists, locking them in place.

"Ahh!" Anders grunted in annoyance. "Michael! Come on, I'm _so close..._"

Hawke smirked at him wickedly. "I know."

Anders tossed his head back with a frustrated groan. "I thought you weren't going to torture me!"

"That was never the agreement," Hawke corrected him. "The agreement was I wouldn't torture you with _knives_, or otherwise hack you up."

Anders didn't know whether to laugh or not. "Bastard," he seethed, but he was smiling. "Come on, Michael..." he moaned pleadingly.

"Cool down a bit first." Hawke moved in to kiss his thighs. Anders exhaled and shifted himself, trying to get Hawke to resume what he had been doing, but Hawke's tight grip on his wrists prevented him from moving much. He couldn't deny he liked what Hawke was doing now – each gentle kiss and the soft caress of Hawke's hot breath on his skin made him shiver – but he'd liked what Hawke was doing before a lot more.

Hawke's tongue traced across one thigh and over his balls. He took them into his mouth, sucking and lightly massaging with his tongue. Anders gasped at the unexpected, strangely exotic sensation. Normally he would have been reluctant to trust Hawke in such a place on his body – the warrior liked using his teeth as much as his tongue, after all, and while Anders enjoyed Hawke's aggressive, almost predatory behaviour during sex, this was one spot where he would rather avoid rough treatment.

Hawke seemed to be aware of this, however. He kept his teeth from making any serious impression and his tongue was gentle. His lips tugged ever so softly on the delicate flesh, and Anders couldn't contain a delighted noise as he seemed to feel the sensation along the entire length of his dick.

Hawke let his balls go and ran his tongue very slowly up the underside of his shaft. Anders squirmed, still sensitive from his close approach to orgasm, but Hawke knew exactly what he was doing. He slipped his tongue over the head and down along the upper side, lifting the mage's cock away from his skin to do so. When he reached the base, he went back to the underside and back up, with maddening slowness.

"Michael... you bloody _tease_," Anders muttered. He tried again to free at least one of his hands, and again he failed to budge Hawke's secure grip. He tugged some more anyway, ineffectually, and Hawke smirked at him.

He caught the head of Anders's cock in his mouth and started sucking again, as fast as last time. Anders let out a satisfied sigh and tried to grind his hips upward to get deeper access, but Hawke was in complete control of the pace. Even so, Anders's breath soon quickened in excitement.

"Michael... please, let me touch you," Anders implored his lover. Hawke relented and released one of his hands, allowing Anders to run it down the warrior's neck, across his shoulder and down his muscular arm. Hawke's body was the most naturally beautiful thing Anders had ever laid eyes on, and feeling the firm muscle and flesh beneath his fingertips only enhanced his pleasure.

Already eager to reach his climax, it was only a few more minutes before Anders was tensing with anticipation again. He didn't say anything this time – he was too busy moaning and sighing to say much anyway – just in case Hawke had any more ideas. His feeble attempt at subterfuge, however, was far from lost on the perceptive warrior. Anders could feel his balls clenching, preparing to spasm with ejaculation, when Hawke pulled away and simultaneously snatched his wrist, leaving him hanging right on the edge just like last time.

"Aauugh!" Anders cried. "You _bastard_!" He was tempted to yell, but he also wanted to avoid Eingana thinking Hawke was killing him and rush into the bathing chamber with her blades unsheathed.

Hawke was laughing so evilly it was almost a cackle. He ran his tongue teasingly along Anders's inner thigh, and the mage squirmed and moaned beneath him. He could _feel_ the denied orgasm hanging on the tip of his dick – if Hawke even touched it gently, he would come, he was certain of it. Hawke was too, and was careful to avoid any further stimulation. His timing had been uncannily perfect.

"Maker damn you, Michael Hawke," Anders growled. "You'd better not make this a habit, or I'll... I'll..."

"You'll what?" Hawke snarked. "Fatally electrocute me? There's more than one way to torment a mage." He bared his teeth in a feral grin and unexpectedly yanked Anders into the tub with him.

"Whoa!" Anders yelled as he plunged into the still-hot water with a riotous splash. Hawke was balanced on his butt, barely managing to keep his face above the surface of the stirred-up water, and Anders was essentially lying right on top of him, his legs to either side of the warrior's hips and his erection pinned right next to Hawke's between their bodies.

Anders snaked his arms around behind Hawke's head to support it – keeping himself above the water looked uncomfortable – and realized he enjoyed this position. The warm bath water surrounded his body up to his lower chest, and this time it was Hawke who was pinned beneath _him_.

Hawke rapidly shattered Anders's brief delusion that he was in control. He sat up suddenly, sloshing more water around and forcing Anders to yank his hands back to support himself or fall backwards against the ledge. Before he could react to their changed position, Hawke's hands had crawled up his sides and were tickling him under the arms.

"Michael!" Anders cried through his involuntary laughter. "Stop it, _stop it_, you prick!"

"Oh, I know you want to touch my prick," Hawke said to him in a seductive voice, and somehow he managed to run his tongue along Anders's jaw even as the laughing mage was struggling to fight him off. "Even more so than you want to touch your own. You're so _obvious_, Anders. You should really work on your tells."

"Bastard," Anders panted again unimaginatively, giving up on getting Hawke's hands out from his armpits and instead trying to clamp his arms at his sides to pin him. It sort of worked, but Hawke's wriggling fingers were still buried between his arms and sides and wreaking intense involuntary stimulation in a place Anders had long ago forgotten he was even ticklish.

"Stop," Anders begged, gasping for air from trying to suppress his laughter, his squirming sending warm splashes over the side of the tub. "You're making the floor wet."

Hawke finally desisted, and Anders carefully parted his arms to let the warrior's hands out, not trusting that he wouldn't immediately go for his newly vulnerable armpits again. He didn't, instead wrapping his arms around Anders's back.

"What's gotten into you?" Anders asked breathlessly, hands on Hawke's shoulders. Too late he realized how poorly phrased his question had been, and he bit his tongue.

But if Hawke picked up any alternate meaning, he showed no sign of it. "Nothing," he said, shifting himself higher so he could kiss the mage softly. When their lips parted, he whispered, "I love you, Anders."

"Michael," Anders whispered back, choked by a powerful rush of emotion. He felt a tear stir in his eye. He hugged Hawke tightly. "I love you too."

Hawke's arms squeezed his back in response, and Anders pulled his face back from Hawke's shoulders to kiss him again. Hawke responded immediately, more roughly this time with his teeth and tongue, apparently trying to express the urgency of his affection and desire. It was just like Hawke, Anders thought fondly, to prefer action over words.

They continued to kiss for a time, shifting around in the hot water and enjoying each others' bodies. Presently they relaxed into a close embrace, arms around each other, against the stone side of the tub.

Anders peered over the ledge at the considerable amount of water that had been sloshed onto the floor. "We're going to have to be careful not to slip when we get out," he remarked. "If you fell and cracked your head against this stone tub-"

"You'd be right here to fix me up and save me from brain damage, I'm sure," Hawke murmured, his mouth against Anders's neck and kissing the pulse of his heartbeat. "Don't worry about it."

Anders didn't worry about it, drawn to the warrior and responding to his touch with kisses of his own. Hawke's unexpected playfulness and his emotional nakedness – a side he'd hardly ever displayed, even before being possessed – had only intensified his desire. It also caused an upsurge of bitterness that he did his best to suppress. He hadn't seen Hawke enjoy himself like this in many long months, and while it was like a balm on his soul to see his lover so... free, it also reminded him more strongly than ever about the demonic entity that was buried inside him, waiting to emerge and unleash the Void.

"Michael," Anders murmured, rolling his head around against the sensation of Hawke's mouth on his neck. "Fuck me."

Hawke pulled away and looked at him with a sly gleam in his eyes. "What? What did you say?"

"I said fuck me," Anders said a little louder.

Hawke turned his ear towards him as if actually having trouble hearing. "Sorry? Didn't quite catch that."

"Fuck me! Stick your cock into me and pound me with it as hard as you can! Michael, please, I'm _begging_ you. Do it."

Hawke smirked. "Now _that_ was what I was waiting to hear. Your desperate plea is my command, mage."

He stood up with a splash of falling water and manhandled Anders up as well, turning him around to face away from him. He pushed the mage's legs apart, forcing him to spread his stance, and then bent him over the stone ledge with an imperious hand between his shoulder blades. Anders felt a shiver of excitement run over him as Hawke's fingers trailed down his spine. He jumped as Hawke slapped his right buttock hard, leaving a residual sting.

Hawke's hands spread his buttocks apart, and Anders gasped when he felt a warm tongue exploring that private area. Hawke's thumbs worked into the cleft of his butt, forcing it wider and allowing his tongue to probe deeper. He heard the warrior spit, and then felt his tongue spreading warm wetness around the tight pucker of muscle.

Then Hawke pushed a finger into him, and this time Anders's breath caught in his throat. He positioned one of his forearms underneath his mouth, anticipating that a need to muffle pleased moans was imminent. His forethought was timely; Hawke thrust his finger deeper, spreading his spit around inside Anders, and the mage couldn't help his groan. The friction was painful, but the intimate probing was powerfully enticing and sent shivers all along his spine.

Hawke worked his finger in and out of Anders's hole for a minute or two, occasionally pulling out to coat his finger with spit and pushing it back in. Anders was grateful for the preparation; Hawke was simply too big to abruptly thrust himself in with no attempt whatsoever to let him adjust.

Hawke spit again and then added a second finger, forcing him a little wider. Anders let out a whimper and clenched his teeth at the initial pain, but he soon grew accustomed to the additional girth. Gradually, he started to push his butt back against Hawke's hand, encouraging him to explore him deeper, as deeply as he could reach.

Then Hawke's fingers curled against his insides, briefly touching the special spot that made Anders jerk and gasp his delight. He could almost feel Hawke's smirk as the warrior kissed his butt gently, fingers working inside him and touching that spot again, and again, with maddening slowness. The anticipation of taking Hawke's cock – rather larger than two fingers – made Anders pant against his forearm. Past experience told him it would hurt at first, but he didn't care. It was all Michael Hawke, all part of the experience of loving and being loved by him. He wanted the warrior to fuck him as much for the pain it would give him as for the vivid pleasure.

Eventually Hawke withdrew his fingers and used his tongue again, able to push it deeper into Anders now that he had loosened him somewhat. He spit a final time, spreading it around the opening to ensure adequate lubrication, and pushed himself into a standing position. He slapped Anders's butt again, this time on the other cheek, eliciting an excited gasp from the mage.

Anders clenched his fists eagerly, but forced his sphincter to relax to better ease Hawke's girth into him. He felt the sizable roundness of the head pressing against his hole, and murmured "Yeah..."

Hawke didn't push forward. "What was that?"

"I said 'yeah'... do it, Michael."

"What do you say?" Hawke asked snidely, slapping his erect cock against Anders's butt and lower back.

"Please," Anders growled. "Please fuck me, Michael Hawke, you snarky, irritating bastard, whom I for some bizarre reason love anyway. I beg you with the entirety of my being."

"Ooh," Hawke said. "So _impolite_." He smacked his cock hard against Anders's buttocks.

"Oh, come on, Michael!" Anders said impatiently. "Stick it in me already!"

"You haven't begged me enough yet."

"Fuck you."

"Exactly. Believe me, I plan to. But be polite, remember. I may be about to rearrange your insides with my dick, but I'm not a _savage_." He paused. "Most of the time, anyway."

"Please," Anders begged. "You don't really irritate me. Not much. Please fuck me, Michael, because I love it when you ram me hard with your cock and hit me and call me names. It turns me on. I love it. Please, _please _just do it."

"_Now_ we're talking," Hawke said, and pushed himself in, all the way, with a long, smooth motion that provoked drawn-out groans of ecstatic relief from both of them.

"Ohhhh, _Michael_..."

"Yeah," Hawke said softly, leaning over to graze his teeth against the mage's left shoulder blade. "Take my cock. Squeeze it."

Anders obediently clenched his sphincter muscles around Hawke's dick. He felt like he could sense every ridge, every vein, every contour of detail across the considerable length of the warrior's shaft and the wider head buried the deepest inside him. Both of them moaned, and Hawke's breath on his ear excited Anders further.

"Mmm," Hawke murmured. His hand crept around Anders's chest to caress him gently. "Good boy. Nice hole, so hot and tight... squeeze those muscles... get yourself used to it."

Anders obliged him with another squeeze. His arms shook as Hawke started to pull himself out. The pain was not as intense as it might have been, thanks to Hawke's liberal application of saliva, but his motion still produced an uncomfortable dragging sensation.

Hawke pulled himself completely out, leaned down to sweep his tongue once more over Anders's stretched hole, and then thrust himself back in hard. The slap of his thighs against Anders's legs was accentuated by a _thump_ as the warrior punched Anders hard in the right buttock.

"Like that?" Hawke asked, and Anders nodded, barely able to form articulate words. Hawke did it again on his left. The blunt pain sent a shock of sensation through him that Anders nevertheless found intensely exciting. He wanted more.

"Keep doing that. Hah... yes... ohh, _yes_," Anders groaned as Hawke started to pump his cock in and out, his pace accelerating rapidly into an intense, powerful rhythm. "Yeah... _fuck_ me, Michael."

Hawke punched him again, this time in the small of his back. The strike forced Anders to arch his spine, stretching his body and pushing himself back against Hawke. His moans were wordless and incoherent, but he clearly enjoyed what the warrior was doing to him.

"You like that, eh?" Hawke said huskily, running his hands down Anders's back.

"_Yes_," Anders breathed.

"I know you do... you're just like a Mabari bitch in heat," Hawke muttered to him. "You bend over and spread your legs and hope I'm not too rough... and even when I am," he said, punctuating his words with a particularly powerful thrust that made Anders whimper, "you like it anyway, because it's your place."

He slapped Anders hard on the butt, and the mage panted in his ecstasy, his whole body shaking with the force of Hawke's thrusts.

"Bitch," Hawke grunted. "You're my bitch, and don't you ever forget it."

"Yes," Anders gasped. "I'm your bitch. I'm your bitch. Yes... ooohhhh... fuck your bitch, Michael. Take what you want. Take what's yours."

His words seemed to drive Hawke into a frenzy. "You're damn right I will," he growled, keeping up his brutal pace, hands gripping Anders by his waist as he leaned down to run his tongue along the mage's upper back. He nipped at his shoulders a few times. Anders leaned back into him, his mind scrambled by lust and pleasure, wanting the warrior to touch him wherever he could reach. Every aggressive thrust provoked a pitchy grunt from the mage.

"And just like the bitch you are," Hawke said softly against his ear, hips slamming into him in time with Anders's keening, "what you really want – what you need from me the most, more than anything else you want me to do to you – is my spunk. Isn't that right? You want to be bred. You want my hot seed shot deep into you... filling you up inside..."

Anders moaned unintelligibly, but he nodded.

"Say it," Hawke hissed. "Tell me what you want. Beg me for it. You won't get it otherwise." His frenetic thrusting slowed as if to threaten Anders with the possibility that he was serious.

"No, please," Anders babbled. "Give it to me. I beg you for your spunk. Please, Michael... there's nothing I need more than to feel you explode inside me. I _need_ it. I need _you_."

"Good," Hawke groaned, straightening his back so he could fuck with the strength of his whole body. "There's a good boy. You'll get it... don't you worry."

Anders's groaning rose again at Hawke's renewed powerful thrusting. Hawke's grip on his right flank tightened while he used his left hand to deliver an open-palmed smack to Anders's lower spine. The blow clearly stung the mage; his voice caught in his throat with a start of pained surprise, but if anything it only seemed to incense him more. He pushed his butt back against Hawke to match his beat, his widened hole eagerly swallowing Hawke's insatiable dick.

They continued in their intimate, carnal rhythm for some time, Hawke occasionally delivering another slap to Anders's butt or back and the mage accepting the treatment with appreciative groans. Anders was rock hard, his dick bobbing underneath him with the force of Hawke thrusting deep into him. He didn't dare touch himself, knowing he would erupt in climax at the slightest stimulation. He was already right on the edge – Hawke's aggressive invasion of his sensitive insides repeatedly touched the sensitive spot within him that sent mind-numbing ripples of euphoria throughout his body, especially his cock.

Presently he noticed that Hawke's pace was speeding up, becoming more erratic, and his grip on Anders's waist tightening in anticipation. Hawke's breath was heavy and ragged. He was near his own climax. The imminent eruption inside him sent tingles of anticipatory delight through the mage. He tried to squeeze his stretched, weary sphincter around Hawke, encouraging him to spend his potency within him. Tired and abused, his muscles responded only weakly to his body's demands, but it seemed Hawke felt it just the same.

"Yeah..." he hissed between clenched teeth. "So _close_... here it comes, mage... _unnhh_, this is for you. All for you. _Fuuuck_!"

He finished with a deep, animalistic noise that was half groan, half growl, bent over Anders's back with his hands clawing at the mage's shoulders. Anders, his mind in disarray from the vivid euphoria he was experiencing, felt warmth flooding him deep inside and it pushed him over the edge. He felt his balls clench, his muscles contract around Hawke's spouting cock, and intense orgasm shatter through him like an electric shock. He let out an ecstatic yell, muffling it only by burying his mouth in his forearm. Semen jetted from his stiff cock, some sticking to his abdomen and some splattering across the stone ledge he was braced against.

Hawke kept up his thrusting for several moments, sighing and groaning harshly as his own orgasm shook him and slowly ebbed. He fell against Anders's back, and his panting breath caressed the mage's shoulder and neck. Gradually, the pumping motion of his hips slowed to an occasional grind.

"Bloody Andraste, Michael," Anders cursed hoarsely. The rational part of his brain, newly emerged from a long suppression by animal desire, made him wonder if there was a chance that the Warden-Commander had heard none of that. Probably not.

"Enjoyed that, huh?" Hawke said smartly. "And with no demons or extremely dangerous fetishism."

"The best part," Anders agreed.

Hawke straightened with a gratified growl. His cock was still fairly hard and buried inside Anders. Hawke reached out and pulled on the mage's shoulders, bringing him up to stand upright in front of him. He turned Anders's head with his hand so they could see one another's exhausted but satisfied faces, and they kissed passionately. Anders jerked loosely against Hawke, highly sensitive to the rigid length shifting around inside him.

Eventually Hawke stepped backwards, sliding his stiff cock from Anders's hole with a wet, slick noise. He leaned forward to kiss the mage's shoulder, a sly grin on his face as his hand reached down to finger Anders where his cock had just been. Anders jumped, as much from surprise as from the heightened sensitivity in his stretched nerves. He hadn't expected Hawke to go back there so soon.

"You want _more_, Michael?" he asked in disbelief. "Already?"

"I'm up for it if you are," Hawke murmured in his ear, flicking his tongue out to tease him. He grabbed his semen-slicked cock with his other hand and slapped it against Anders's thigh.

"You are unbelievable," Anders said amusedly, his voice a little hoarse and jumpy as Hawke probed him. "Wasn't that enough for now? Maybe we should rest a bit before we go at it again?"

"I never get enough. You know me." Hawke pressed himself against Ander's back, reaching up with one finger slick with his discharge from Anders's hole and pushing it into the mage's mouth. Anders reached behind him to grab Hawke's sides as he sucked his finger with a greedy, erotic moan. He couldn't deny that another round sounded highly enticing. Still...

"You know," he said around Hawke's finger, "I never did actually wash your back."

"Irrelevant," Hawke said. "True, but irrelevant."

"Maybe we should..." he shoved Hawke's finger out of his mouth with his tongue "actually have a bath? The water's not even hot anymore."

"Who needs hot water for a bath?" Hawke said roguishly. He lowered himself to his knees in the water and pulled Anders down with him. "I just need it to be somewhat lukewarm, as well as some soap and my man to wash my back."

Anders smiled at him and leaned over with an arm outstretched to grab a cake of hard soap, lying untouched in a tray on the ledge since they'd entered the chamber. He maneuvered Hawke into a sitting position in front of him and started to lather him up with the soap.

Hawke relaxed against him with his eyes closed, enjoying the simple pleasure of bathing as Anders cleaned several days' worth of dried sweat and dirt from his back, neck, and arms. He reached around and took some time to rub his soapy hands over Hawke's chest, enjoying exploring the ripples of muscle with his fingertips and matching it to the mental picture he had of what Hawke looked like from the front.

Hawke raised his arms at Anders's request, enabling the mage access to his armpits. Before running the soap over the hollow of the axilla and the tuft of soft hair that grew there, Anders leaned around Hawke to inhale his musky scent. It was deeply erotic and reawakened his desires almost at once, but he suppressed them in the interest of hygiene and gave Hawke's pits a good scrubbing. The warrior wasn't ticklish at all, Anders noted with a slight, amused resentment.

"You like how I smell?" Hawke asked.

"Very much," Anders said. "Anywhere. Your armpits, your hair, your beard... your crotch, especially. The sweat, the semen, the musk... even the blood... it's _you_. Just remembering how you smell is enough to get me worked up, sometimes. I like to experience you as much as I can, through every avenue available to me." He ran his tongue over an area of the back of Hawke's neck where he hadn't soaped yet. "Mmm... You taste good, too."

Hawke laughed. "I'll remember that."

"Stand up and turn around, and I'll wash the rest of you," Anders said.

Hawke did so, and Anders soaped up his lower abdomen and back, his buttocks, groin, and thighs. Hawke smirked at him when he couldn't resist cleaning the warrior's dick with his mouth first before moving on to the soap. He stretched and placed his hands atop his head, enjoying the full-body cleaning he was receiving.

"Now rinse yourself off," Anders said. "Lie back and I'll do your feet."

"My feet?" Hawke said as he sat back down in the water and splashed it over himself. "Are my feet really that dirty?"

"You'd be surprised," Anders said. "Anyways, maybe I just want to touch your feet."

Hawke laughed at him and leaned back, raising his feet out of the water. "You can touch my feet whenever you want," he said.

Anders soaped up Hawke's shins and feet, running his fingers between the warrior's toes to get every inch of skin nice and clean. Hawke leaned back further and submerged himself in the water, running his hands through his thick hair to lift some of the grime from it. A stream of bubbles disturbed the surface of the water for a while; then Hawke emerged, droplets of water clinging to his eyebrows and beard, as Anders finished cleaning his feet.

"I feel so clean," Hawke commented. "Full-body washing service. I can't believe I've never taken advantage of this strange willingness on your part to bath my entire body."

"That's because whenever I asked you to take a bath with me, you assumed I was coming on to you and so you came on to me first," Anders said dryly. "Then we had sex and fell asleep, and it had to wait until the next evening because there were bandits or demons or qunari to be killed in the morning. And then it would just happen again, so I could never get clean unless I took a bath by myself."

"Oh, right," Hawke said. "Huh. That does make sense. Well, now I know. Give me the soap and I'll do you."

Anders obliged him, pleased that Hawke had offered, and allowed the warrior to wash him all over as he had done for Hawke, down to and including his feet. He relaxed against the ledge after Hawke had done his back, enjoying the combined massage/bath as much because it was Hawke giving it to him as because of the smooth sensations and cleansing. Hawke was right – afterwards, he really did feel clean.

Anders yanked the large cork bung from the bottom of the basin, allowing the water to drain, and they stepped out of the tub. Anders reminded Hawke not to slip on the copious water they'd managed to slosh over the sides of the basin with their cavorting.

Hawke retrieved his soft linen towel from a cabinet on the wall, and Anders took his from the hook. They reentered the bedroom to dry themselves off.

In the midst of toweling his hair dry, Anders's eyes fell on Hawke's writing desk near the door, where the warrior occasionally (mostly at Varric's prodding) recorded his "exploits" in a journal. Sitting atop the leather-bound book, lying closed and abandoned for some months now, were the manacles for Hawke's wrists and ankles that were part of the binding enchantment.

Anders paused. Eingana must have brought them up with her. He wondered when she had put them there. Hopefully before the sounds of their copulation had grown loud enough to be heard through the closed bathing chamber door. That had been... essentially as soon as it had started, Anders thought with a wry grimace.

He glanced at Hawke as he continued to dry himself. The warrior had retrieved a fresh, clean pair of shorts and put them on, followed by a red velvet robe that somehow made him look both regal and deceptively gentle. He tied the sash loosely, leaving the robe partly open, and turned around to examine Anders with his arms folded across his chest. He didn't appear to notice the manacles on the writing desk.

"So how about that meat and potatoes?" Hawke commented, and Anders smiled at him. He was starving, himself.

"I'll meet you down there," Anders said, and Hawke left the room.

Anders retrieved and donned some light, loose slacks and an undershirt that would suffice for dinner. Leaving a single candle lit on the nightstand, he followed Hawke out of the room, heading for the stairs.

Eingana was waiting for him on the mezzanine, dressed in similarly airy nightclothes made rather out-of-place by the gleaming blades sheathed on a belt she wore over them. In one hand she carried a book, the title of which Anders made out through her long, slender fingers as _The Search for the True Prophet._

Eingana's eyes had been on the staircase, no doubt having trailed Hawke down to the first floor, but she turned to look at Anders as he emerged from the bedchamber. Her delicate features were carefully bland, but Anders thought he could see a hint of a disapproving furrow in her brow. Or was it amusement she was suppressing?

"Have a nice bath?" the elf asked in such a perfectly neutral voice that Anders couldn't tell if she was making heavy insinuations or harmless small talk.

He coughed, acutely conscious of the flush creeping up his neck. "Yes, very nice."

Eingana's mouth twitched, and now Anders was all but certain she was hiding a smirk, not a frown. He felt a little better. "Have you eaten?" he asked, managing to keep his voice even.

"Yes, but I'll come down with you and hang around nearby," she said, indicating with her head for him to lead the way. Anders did so, feeling a somewhat dangerous sense of complacency creeping up on him.

**ασυνέχεια**

After they had eaten, Anders and Hawke returned to the master bedchamber, while Eingana slipped away unobtrusively to her own room. Anders had hardly seen her throughout their entire meal, but he had felt her nearby.

In the bedchamber, Hawke slipped out of his robe and left it on a hook attached to the wardrobe before moving over to the bed, softly illuminated by the candle. He let out a loud, expansive yawn and stretched his arms, rolling his head and shoulders around to crack various joints.

Anders discarded his soft garments and looked around for something to wear to bed. Clean, sexually gratified and with a full stomach, he was yawning widely himself and could barely keep his eyes open, but he needed to stay awake a while longer in order to re-enchant Hawke. Unconsciously, his face soured at the thought.

Anders was disinclined to search through his own basket of freshly-laundered clothes for a pair of shorts, so he grabbed one of Hawke's from the wardrobe and pulled them on. He managed not to get too turned on by the fact that he was wearing his lover's smallclothes and joined Hawke next to the bed. Anders ran his hand up Hawke's back along his spine, enjoying the smoothness of his clean skin.

"It'll be nice to sleep in a bed instead of upright in a magical barrier," Anders observed casually, trying to remind his lover gently of the other implications of his words. Hawke glanced at him with a thin smile as he was leaning over to pull back the bed's coverlet, but he said nothing. Then his eyes fell on the manacles on the desk, and he froze.

Anders moved cautiously around him to look into Hawke's eyes, and the warrior stared at him with fear in his eyes.

"Michael," Anders began placatingly.

"You're not going to do it... _now_, are you?" Hawke asked, his voice somewhat higher-pitched than it normally was. "You'll wait until I'm asleep?"

"Yes, of course," Anders said. Hawke immediately looked relieved, but there was a certain dismay still present on his face. One hand went, apparently unconsciously, to finger the metal collar around his neck. Glowing runes still crawled languorously across it, no brighter or dimmer than they had been before their bath.

Anders felt terrible. He couldn't bring to mind a single instance of ever having seen Hawke afraid of anything, until now. He was usually the one other people were afraid of, and he seemed to know it and revel in the fact. He even deliberately frightened people sometimes for his own amusement. It was bitingly, intimately painful seeing Hawke watching the manacles with suspicion and dread in his eyes, so contrary was it to what Anders had come to think of as Hawke's _normal_.

Hawke tugged the coverlet back and climbed into the bed somewhat stiffly. He shifted around, making himself comfortable, as Anders climbed in next to him. He had a book on the nightstand which he planned to read while Hawke fell asleep, to ensure that he didn't also drift off before he could re-invoke the binding spell. His hand was about to close over the book when his other was suddenly caught in a powerful grip.

Anders looked over, surprised. A start of fear ran through him as the possibility of the entity spontaneously emerging occurred to him, but Hawke's eyes were still his ordinary rich green and entirely human. He was holding Anders's wrist like it was a lifeline.

"Anders, do you have to... do you have to use _those _things?" he asked quietly, gesturing with his head towards the writing desk.

"Michael..." Anders said regretfully. "They're part of the enchantment. I have to."

"The ankle ones I can deal with," Hawke said with a shockingly unfamiliar tinge of desperation in his voice. "But on my wrists... it's making my heart speed up just thinking about it. I don't want to... I mean, I... isn't there anything else you can use?"

Anders looked into Hawke's eyes. He was slightly ashamed at the idea that occurred to him that Hawke might be trying to manipulate him by acting weak and afraid, so that he would take pity on him and by some means weaken the binding enchantment. But Hawke wasn't the kind of man who would do such a thing, as far as Anders knew – and that was quite well. And the distress on his face looked as genuine as the scowl and rage he was so accustomed to.

His eyes went to the manacles, wondering if there was some way he could make Hawke more comfortable. The confinement of the wrists and ankles were part of the symbolic harmony of the spell, and they were convenient to lock and unlock, which were the main reasons he had used them in the first place. Early that morning, Anders had been on the verge of going out to find a smith from which he could buy or commission a set of manacles; fortunately, Isabela had volunteered a set of her own. Why she had them and what she had done with them beforehand, Anders had studiously avoided contemplating.

Really, what else could he use? He needed something metal that went around Hawke's wrist to enchant... metal. Of course.

"Your gauntlets," Anders said.

Hawke looked intensely relieved. "Would those work? If I just put them on... that would be okay. Can the spell work with the manacles on my ankles and gauntlets on my hands?"

"Yes," Anders muttered, his mind racing through the reworked spell he would have to cast. He would have had to re-enchant the manacles anyway, so there wasn't really anything he needed to change other than switching them out for the gauntlets. There was nothing he could think of to suggest that using the gauntlets instead of the manacles wouldn't work – it wasn't so much the physical confinement of the wrists as the magical confinement that mattered, after all. "Yes, it will work."

Hawke collapsed back on the pillow and let go of Anders's wrist with a sigh of relief. "Maker, I'm glad to hear that. I can stomach knowing I'll wake up in that cage again tomorrow... hardly able to move for everyone else's safety, until the enchanter gets here... but those things on my wrists." He shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know what it is about them. They make me... they give me the... I don't like them."

Anders reached out and stroked Hawke's shoulder gently. "I understand," he whispered. "This will be over soon, Michael, I promise. I won't let anything hurt you."

Hawke snorted bitterly. "That's not what I'm worried about."

"And nor will I let you hurt anyone," Anders continued, and Hawke breathed a soft, relieved sigh, glad he had been understood. He reached up to take Anders's hand, and the mage squeezed him reassuringly. Hawke squeezed back, his eyes drifting closed – peacefully this time – and in minutes he was asleep, their hands still connected.

Anders disengaged him as gently as he could, not wanting to wake his lover, and sat up. He pressed his face into the palm of his hands, rubbing his eyes and wishing for many things. He listened to the soft, regular sound of Hawke's breathing. It did nothing to dissuade the whirl of worry and lurking, barely-suppressed terror in his mind, but it did bring him some comfort.

Anders leaned over to kiss Hawke softly on the forehead. Then he stood up and left the room, heading downstairs to retrieve the warrior's gauntlets.

**Ω**


	16. Ripples

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Ripples"**

Standing behind her desk in the city guard barracks, Aveline took a moment when only Donnic was nearby to rub her eyes and try to clear her vision. She had been up until well past midnight the previous day, issuing orders and trying to organize the fracturing social strata of Kirkwall into some kind of cohesive response to the chaos that was erupting beneath their feet. After stumbling in exhaustion into her bed, she'd had all of five hours' sleep before she was up again and right back in the fray. The sleep had helped, but only to a point. She was still weary and stretched to her limits. She needed help to deal with what was going on, here. She needed...

Aveline rubbed her forehead and blinked rapidly to focus herself. What she _really_ needed was Michael Hawke. Why was it that only he ever seemed able to solve these damnable situations? Her life had been so much simpler before she'd met him. True, he'd saved her from a horrifying fate at the hands of darkspawn (which Anders had explained once to her, the callous bastard), but he seemed to magnetically attract danger and trouble and in the process drag _her _into it, even as he took it all in stride and wiped out everyone and everything that tried to kill him.

"Aveline," said Donnic, seeing the tired frown on her face and putting a concerned hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps you should go back to bed for a little while. Just a few hours."

Aveline shook her head. "You know I can't do that, Donnic."

"I'm sure we can do without you for a little while," her husband said. "I promise I'll wake you up if the Keep is attacked by demons."

The sad thing was that he wasn't even joking. Wordlessly, Aveline reached up to touch Donnic's hand gratefully, but shook her head again and picked up the latest report she'd received. Donnic folded his arms, but didn't object. A rueful smile crossed his face briefly.

_Report: 24 Justinian, 9:35 Dragon, ninth bell_, Aveline read in Guardsman Brennan's cramped, neat handwriting. _Demon attacks throughout Lowtown, mostly shades. Eighteen reports of rage demons from various districts. One unconfirmed sighting of "naked purple lady with horns" i.e. desire demon. Civilians being advised to remain in homes, close businesses for the day; most are doing so. Report of rioting, "magical explosions" in alienage unconfirmed as of this writing; guards en route to investigate. Have been unable to locate any templars. Messengers to Gallows not returned even when escorted. Guard squadrons sweeping Lowtown for demonic/looter activity; protecting civilians who refuse to stay indoors; rotating guardsmen out every two hours per your schedule. City guard sustained moderate casualties thus far; mostly magic-induced weakness from shade attacks or burn from rage demons. No deaths to report. –Brennan._

"Where are the bloody templars when you really need them?" Aveline muttered.

"Love?" Donnic said. "Um... there's a few."

Aveline looked up. Donnic's words were accompanied by some sort of commotion in the barracks common room outside her office. She heard shouting and an unfamiliar voice responding with cold disdain. Through the arms and heads of a few guardsmen outside her office, Aveline caught a glimpse of a shield emblazoned with the Sword of Mercy.

She put down the report and strode forward. "Let me through, please," she called ahead of her. The guardsmen, seeing their captain, parted before her, revealing three templars standing in the common room. Two she recognized; the one she didn't was glaring at one of her guards, who was glaring back with equal ferocity in his eyes. Two of his fellow guards on either side of him had restraining hands on his arms, as if to hold him back from attacking the holy knight.

"Knight-Captain Cullen," Aveline said coolly. "Are you aware that I've been trying to contact you for the last twelve hours?"

"I am, and I'm sorry it's taken me this long to respond," Cullen said stiffly. "You must understand, however, that the Gallows and the Circle have not been immune to the... activity currently underway throughout Kirkwall."

"_Activity_," Aveline repeated. "Demonic activity? Isn't this what you templars are supposed to prevent? What is going on at the Gallows, exactly?"

"Knight-Commander Meredith has ordered the Circle be locked down," said a familiar templar to Cullen's right. He was older than Cullen by at least a decade; Aveline recognized him as Ser Thrask, a templar she and Hawke had aided a few times in the past. "She believes unsanctioned activity on the part of the mages is responsible for the outbreak of demonic activity. All but a handful of mages are confined to their quarters; the rest are researching the cause of the outbreak under templar supervision."

Aveline pursed her lips. There was nothing more she wanted than to disabuse Meredith of her fool notion, but she had given her word to Anders she would wait for the enchanter's prognosis before revealing to the templars what she knew about the situation at the Hawke estate.

"Does a lockdown require every templar to remain at the Gallows?" she asked instead. "My guards are barely keeping the situation under control as it is. Aid from the templars would go a long way towards keeping the city safe."

"I agree," said Cullen, "and I have said as much to the Knight-Commander. It wasn't easy, but I convinced her to relegate some of our templars over to your command for the duration of the crisis. They are yours to deploy as you see fit."

Aveline was shocked speechless. Whatever response she had expected, it certainly was not actual help from the reticent Order. It took her a moment to recover.

"Thank you," she said. "That will be very helpful. I do not doubt that your men will be instrumental in keeping this threat contained."

"Let it be understood," said the templar to Cullen's left in a hostile tone of voice, "that the Order does not and will not answer to your authority at any time. You will tell Ser Thrask and I where our forces are needed; _we_ will relay your instructions to them."

Aveline raised her eyebrow at him. She looked at Cullen, and the Knight-Captain cleared his throat.

"Guard-Captain Aveline," he said. "This is Knight-Lieutenant Karras. He and Ser Thrask will be acting co-Knight-Captains while I am away."

"Away?" Aveline asked, surprised. "Where are you going?"

"That is official Order business, and none of your concern," Ser Karras said immediately.

"That's enough, Karras," Cullen said in a tone of weary impatience. He looked back at Aveline. "A senior enchanter from the College of Magi in Cumberland is due to arrive in Kirkwall today. The Knight-Commander insists that she be escorted into the city, from well outside its limits."

"An insult," Ser Thrask said darkly. "Enchanter Wynne is an exemplary mage and highly esteemed in many Circles apart from Kirkwall's. The Order should be protecting the city from demons and abominations, not respected mages who are not even a threat."

"My thoughts exactly," said Cullen. "There is no need for the templars of Kirkwall to incur the wrath of the College of Magi by interfering with the business of one of its most valued senior enchanters. I have volunteered to go myself to accompany Enchanter Wynne into the city. I am Knight-Captain and I knew her at the Circle tower in Ferelden. It is my hope that she will see this as a gesture of friendship and respect, rather than one of distrust."

Ser Karras wore the kind of expression one might expect to see on the face of someone who had just discovered something odorous and unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his boot. Aveline pursed her lips, thinking. It seemed likely that Cullen would accompany Wynne to wherever her "business" might take her, and thus also likely that the templars would find out about Hawke very soon, whether Aveline wanted them to or not. Perhaps it was a blessing that it would be Cullen who made the discovery, and not someone like Ser Karras, whose expression made it clear how much he thought of showing respect of any kind towards powerful and influential mages.

"Very well," she said. "Please convey my respects to Enchanter Wynne, Knight-Captain. Thank you again for your efforts with the Knight-Commander." She nodded to Ser Thrask and Ser Karras. "And to you, Sers, for your abilities and those of your men. We must-"

"Where is the Champion?" Ser Karras cut her off.

Aveline stared at him, annoyed at being interrupted and unsure how to answer. Karras was looking at her hard, almost accusatorily, as if he knew where her thoughts had just been. But that was impossible, Aveline chided herself.

"Guard-Captain," Cullen said more gently, "you know the Champion quite well, do you not? His help could surely make as much difference as that of the templars. Is there... some reason you have not contacted him?"

Aveline was so tired. Physically, and of... this. This was not the duty of the Captain of the Guard. Still, she couldn't just refuse to answer.

"Knight-Captain," Aveline said, coming to a decision. "Why don't you step into my office for a moment?"

Ser Karras immediately started to object, but Cullen silenced him with a look and gestured for Aveline to lead the way. Karras fumed as Cullen followed Aveline into her office, leaving Donnic and the other guardsmen outside with the templars. Aveline shut the door with a smart noise and turned to Cullen. He looked at her inquiringly.

"What am I about to tell you," Aveline said in a soft, serious voice, "I have sworn not to reveal until... until certain conditions are met. It may alarm you, but I hope you will react with the same cool temper and wisdom I have seen you display in the past. It involves a threat to the city which I believe is connected indirectly to the demon attacks, but is itself contained for the time being."

Cullen did indeed look alarmed. "Guard-Captain, what are you talking about? What threat is this?"

"I would like your word," Aveline said over him, "that you will not speak of what you are about to learn to _anyone_ but Enchanter Wynne or myself – particularly Knight-Lieutenant Karras – until some compromise is met."

"Aveline," Cullen said in a careful tone. "I cannot make such a-"

"Your word, Knight-Captain. I must have it. This is a critical matter in many different ways. I do not make the decision to speak of it to you lightly, and I wish to be sure that my trust in you will not be misplaced."

Cullen sighed and shrugged with a clank of his heavy plate armour. "Very well. You have my word."

"The Champion is possessed," Aveline said.

Cullen's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak. Aveline held up a hand to forestall his immediate barrage of questions.

"I do not know what the entity is. From the incident outside the Hawke estate last evening, I assume you are familiar with the apostate Anders?"

"Yes," Cullen said, his brow furrowed.

"It is largely through his efforts that Hawke has not yet laid waste to Kirkwall. You've seen the Champion fight. I have seen only briefly how he is changed while under the influence of... whatever the thing is, but I saw and know enough to be certain that he is extraordinarily dangerous and nearly impossible to impede or disable. Getting close enough to him to inflict injury is impractical, and wounding him only seems to make him stronger. I'm told he is also highly resistant to magic. Anders claims to know what the entity is – he wouldn't elaborate except to say that it is not a spirit or demon, but it _is_ of the Fade."

Cullen had his hand over his mouth and was rubbing his face in consternation, staring at the floor as Aveline talked.

"The reason I have not contacted the Champion for help," she went on steadily, "is because he is currently kept in check only by powerful magic. Anders believes he may be capable of breaking his prison from the inside given enough time, and so he must renew the magic periodically. I doubt even that will suffice indefinitely."

Cullen nodded, his eyes still wide and his face pale. "And... Enchanter Wynne," he said. "You mentioned that I could speak of this to her. She knows, then?"

"Yes," Aveline said. "Anders contacted her for help, and that is why she is coming to Kirkwall – that is her 'business' here. He is certain she will devise some means of freeing Hawke from the entity and returning him to his normal state. I remain unconvinced, but..." Aveline sighed. "Hawke has done much for Kirkwall and for me, personally, and mages certainly know more about this kind of thing than I do. I believe we are obliged to try to save him in return for all he has saved us from. And Anders... Anders is himself an entire other... issue. He cares a great deal for Hawke, however, and he asked that I not involve the templars until the enchanter has arrived and the question of whether or not Hawke can be saved is settled."

"Yes..." Cullen muttered, his face pensive. "And I suppose you're telling me this because I would have escorted Enchanter Wynne to the Hawke estate and found out on my own anyway?"

"That is correct. I would rather you know in advance, and I would greatly appreciate it if you would _not _bring the wrath of the Order down on a man we may yet save."

"Of course," Cullen said. "As long as he is contained, as you say. If he is not... well, we'll see. But – you said the entity is of the Fade, but neither a spirit nor a demon. What, then? What _else_ could it be?"

Aveline shrugged. "That's what I thought. The Warden-Commander of Ferelden is also staying at the estate, as you know, and she implied some knowledge of the entity as well. She seemed to agree with Anders that the enchanter would know how to save Hawke."

Cullen looked reassured. "I am glad the Warden-Commander knows about this. She is the one who purged the entire tower at Kinloch Hold full of demons and abominations, after all, and Enchanter Wynne helped her do it. If Eingana believes the Champion can be saved, then I will trust her judgement – for now. If I may ask, who else knows?"

"Only Hawke's companions," Aveline said. "Varric Tethras, the pirate whore, and the elves Fenris and Merrill."

Cullen nodded. "And what does all this have to do with the outbreak of demonic attacks? You said they were indirectly connected."

"Yes," Aveline said. "My understanding is that the night before last, Hawke fell under the influence of the entity and tried to kill everyone in the mansion. Anders, the Warden-Commander, and Hawke's manservant very narrowly escaped death at his hands. They only brought Hawke under control by luring him into the cellars, where Anders had set up a magical trap. I'm not quite sure what exactly happened – it involved details of interacting magical forces that were largely over my head, but from what I understood, the glyph that triggered Anders's trap was coincidentally placed in such a way that a reservoir of magic contained by the city itself was undammed by its activation. The result was a catastrophic magical explosion that-"

"The earthquake, two nights ago," Cullen interrupted. His face was ashen. "That's what it was, wasn't it? That was when the first demonic attacks began. And the tremors afterwards..."

"Yes," Aveline said. "The trap paralyzed Hawke and suppressed the entity, allowing Anders to place him within a more secure enchantment, but it also weakened the Veil throughout the entire city. For all we know, it may have had other effects as well that haven't yet become apparent."

"Maker have mercy on us," Cullen whispered.

"So now you know the extent of the situation," Aveline said. "Enchanter Wynne will hopefully arrive by the end of the day, and she will know what needs to be done. Either the Champion can be saved, in which case I would much prefer that he is, or he cannot be, in which case he must be killed. In the meantime, Anders will keep Hawke contained at his estate, and the city must be protected from the demons."

Cullen only nodded mutely, still absorbing what she had told him.

"You have given your word that you will not speak of this to anyone who does not already know if it," Aveline reminded him. "That includes myself, those at the Hawke estate and Enchanter Wynne, but no one else. Will you keep your word?"

"I will," Cullen said. "Maker help me, but you're right – we owe it to Michael Hawke. I will update Wynne on the situation as soon as I reach her, and I will tell her what you've told me about this... this _entity_ – of the Fade, but not a demon or spirit. Perhaps she will know more of such things, and how to deal with them. I can only hope that she will also know some way to mend the Veil – if demons continue to breach it at the rate they are now, it may not recover fast enough to prevent a..."

He didn't seem to want to finish the sentence. Aveline unconsciously gripped the hilt of her sword. A demonic invasion? Was that what lay in Kirkwall's future? Surely not. Surely _something_ could be done to prevent such a calamity.

If demons _did _invade Kirkwall en masse, Aveline thought, there was no one who could stop them but Michael Hawke. There was a certain brutal symmetry in the fact that an effort to disable him, or the thing he had become, might have inadvertently triggered a catastrophe only he could prevent.

Cullen and Aveline were silent for a few moments, each privately contemplating the grim possibilities that lay ahead of them. Eventually Cullen stirred himself and took a deep breath.

"Thank you for trusting me with this information, Aveline," he said. "I will order Ser Thrask and Ser Karras to obey your orders without question, and to instruct their men to do the same. You shall have full authority over this particular company of the Templar Order."

Aveline was surprised. "Knight-Captain – I'm sure that won't be necessary. If it will encourage Ser Karras to react badly-"

"Then he will be relieved of his post," Cullen said curtly. "I will not tolerate insubordination from Ser Karras or anyone else in these circumstances. The stakes are simply too high. He will obey my orders and yours or he will be disciplined."

Aveline nodded. "I understand. Thank you, Cullen."

He nodded back, and opened the office door, gesturing for her to exit first. She did so. The guardsmen were all still standing there, waiting for her orders; Ser Thrask waited patiently, while Ser Karras looked to be barely suppressing a sneer.

"Captain?" Donnic asked. "Is all well?"

"Yes, Guardsman," Aveline said. "I will have orders for you shortly."

"Thrask, Karras," Cullen said, and the knights looked to their captain attentively. "Your instructions have changed. You are to obey every order the Guard-Captain gives you as if it were my own, and you are to instruct your men to do the same."

"What?" Ser Karras said with shock and disgust in his voice. "Knight-Captain, you cannot mean... I will not-"

"Be silent, Karras!" Cullen boomed, startling everyone, including Aveline. She had never before heard the normally soft-spoken Knight-Captain raise his voice.

"I have had quite enough of your insubordination," Cullen said threateningly. "You will follow the orders you are given, either by myself or by Guard-Captain Aveline, or so help me, Karras, I will have you expelled from the Templar Order. Is that understood?"

Ser Karras had a furious scowl on his face but he nodded grudgingly. "Understood, Knight-Captain."

"Captain," Ser Thrask interjected. "If I may ask – have you news of the Champion? Will he help us?"

"The Champion is fighting battles of his own at the moment, Ser Thrask," said Cullen. "We must do the same. The safety of this city is in our hands – we cannot rely on the Champion for the time being."

Ser Thrask nodded solemnly.

Cullen turned to Aveline. "I must depart immediately," he said. "It is essential that Enchanter Wynne reach Kirkwall promptly and safely."

"Luck be with you," Aveline said. "Please, return as quickly as you can."

"I will." Cullen shook her hand. "Maker watch over you," he said, and he strode out of the room.

Aveline turned to her guards and the templars, all watching her silently and waiting for orders. Ser Karras still looked angry, but he nodded to her when she looked at him, indicating that he would obey. She had no way to know if the hotheaded templar's enforced loyalty would endure once he was out of her sight, but it would have to do.

"Very well, gentlemen," she said. "We have a lot to do, so let's begin."

**ασυνέχεια**

Eingana sat on a couch in the sitting room of the Hawke estate, leaned over a map spread across the central table. The map showed the known extent of the Deep Roads throughout much of the Free Marches. A point some ways off any known Deep Road was circled emphatically in red.

"Are you absolutely sure than this entrance is blocked off?" Eingana asked, stabbing a glyph on the map some distance away from the red circle.

"I'm positive," Varric answered her. "Bartrand originally intended to use that entrance before we ever even met Hawke. When we scouted it out we found it choked with debris. It would take weeks of hard labour to open it up. It's a waste of time."

"Hmm." Eingana scratched a glyph with her pencil over the aforementioned entrance to note the new information. She frowned thoughtfully, tapping her pencil against the map as her eyes roved across it, searching. "And here – this is the one you used?"

"Yes," Varric said, "but I wouldn't recommend it."

"Oh?" Eingana looked up at him. "And why not?"

"There were rather a lot of spiders," Varric said. "It was a narrow opening we had to squeeze through one by one – and at the end, a bloody horde of arachnids tainted by the darkspawn waiting for us. We lost a hireling there."

"The Wardens aren't afraid of spiders," Eingana said. "Really, Varric."

"It's not _just_ the spiders, of course, though I wouldn't be too quick to dismiss a known threat," Varric admonished. "I've survived quite a while by knowing when to not needlessly endanger my own life."

"What else besides the spiders?" Eingana pressed.

"The route we intended to take" – Varric traced a finger along a Deep Road connected to the entrance Eingana had indicated, and that passed closest to the circled area – "was blocked off by rubble. And another Road that intersected ours caved in too, practically on top of our heads." He gestured for the pencil. Eingana gave it to him, and he drew a line across the Roads on the map at the locations of the cave-ins.

"Blondie and Hawke were buried for half an hour before Bethany blasted them out with magic, but lucky for us we didn't need to go that way," Varric said amusedly. "It was completely blocked."

Eingana shivered. "Buried under rock for half an hour? I can't believe they didn't go crazy. What about the other blockage? Is it also impassable?"

Varric shook his head. "Hawke, Anders, Fenris and I scouted another route around it. You could conceivably use the same route we did, assuming it's still intact, but it took us almost a day out of our way and it was infested with spiders and darkspawn. We killed everything that got in our way, of course, but it may well be reinfested by now. Well – Hawke and Fenris did most of the killing... I occasionally shot a few things in my efforts to not be eaten, and Blondie did his sparkly healing magic. There was this one rather large spider – ridiculously huge thing I would have called physically impossible if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. It was the size of this _room_, I shit you not, and surrounded by mobs of its babies, of course-"

"Varric," the elf cut him off. "As much as I enjoy your thrilling exploits of rather large spiders, do you have another suggestion? I doubt very much that you know of an entrance the Wardens don't, but you _have_ been down there and I haven't. What route would you take, if you had to go back?"

Varric scoffed. "I would _never _go back, and I would tell you most emphatically not to go either, if I thought you'd listen. I haven't told you about the rock wraiths yet, have I? But if I _had_ to return..."

Varric rubbed his chin and looked thoughtfully at the map. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Eingana looked up at the doorway with such suddenness that he was startled for a moment.

"What?" Varric asked.

Eingana held up her hand to quiet him. "Did you hear that?" she asked.

Varric shook his head. "No. What?"

Eingana eyed the doorway to the common room, leaning back and forth to see more of the room beyond. She could see the writing desk and the fireplace on the far wall, but nobody else in the room. Hawke's magical prison was out of sight.

"Just a moment," Eingana said, getting to her feet to investigate.

**ασυνέχεια**

Anders was dreaming again. He was traveling down a strange tunnel of golden light that swirled around him in a dazzling helix. Wrapped around the perimeter of the tunnel was a wide red ribbon with frayed, torn edges, intertwined with a spindly, glittering thread. In the black emptiness beyond the tunnel, Anders sensed rather than saw the spirits racing alongside him, keeping pace in their own undulating vortex. They were all whispering to him at once, which made it impossible to understand any of them – or was it a single being whose multiple voices blended into noise? There was no way to tell.

Anders wandered in the Fade for some time, drifting down the tunnel in the half-aware state characteristic of most dreams. Only when his environment underwent sudden dramatic change did he "wake up."

Abruptly, the golden tunnel expanded and dissipated into darkness. The thread of disjointed sparkles went with it, blooming into an ever-widening spiral that remained constantly visible despite its great distance. Only the curved red ribbon remained unchanged. As Anders examined his surroundings, wondering at the bizarre-even-for-a-dream environments the Fade seemed to be producing more and more lately, an awareness of the entire Hawke estate materialized around him.

His non-present self seemed to be focused in the common room, where he could see Hawke hovering in his magical prison. He was dressed as Anders had last seen him, in a pair of trousers with the hems bunched inside metal manacles, his newly-enchanted gauntlets on his hands and the metal collar glowing around his neck. As he watched, the red ribbon fluttered out from him and flowed in a billowing river to wrap itself around the cylinder of translucent force.

Anders could also "see" in an abstract, non-physical sense that Eingana was in the sitting room, poring over several maps and charts to do with the Grey Wardens' planned expedition into the Deep Roads. Varric was with her, sitting on a couch catacorner to the Warden-Commander and offering advice on the locations of cave-ins and darkspawn nests. Reaver was chasing rats in the cellars within earshot of Merrill, who was working on something in the magical laboratory. Fingers of blood magic skittered along her arms and legs as she worked some spell, the casting wound on her arm dripping onto the workbench. Anders couldn't tell what she was doing – the blood magic seemed to suck both matter and energy into it, distorting the room where Merrill was into warped, indistinct darkness.

Gradually becoming more aware, Anders looked around for himself, reasoning that as this was a dream, he would be lying in bed in Hawke's room if it accurately reflected reality. It seemed it didn't, however – he was not in Hawke's room or anywhere else in the mansion. Anders combed the entire premises with his mind, and his sleeping self was nowhere except where he already was.

With the strange logic of a dreamer, Anders decided that if his body wasn't anywhere in the mansion, it must have been moved. Hawke was the master of the house – even if he was possessed and trapped comatose within an impenetrable magical barrier, surely he would know what had become of his lover's sleeping form.

"Michael," Anders said, and the world seemed to condense around the red-wrapped magical cage in which Hawke was imprisoned. His preternatural awareness of the rest of the estate faded, and the clarity and detail of his surroundings improved rapidly to near that of real life.

Through gaps in the wrapped ribbon, Anders could see Hawke's face as the warrior's eyes opened. They were completely black. Anders felt a clench of heartsick terror, but in his dream-state he couldn't remember why Hawke's eyes' being black was bad.

"Michael," Anders said, fighting back his fear. "Where am I?"

Hawke watched Anders for a moment, and then raised his arms. The ribbon contracted suddenly, stretching itself tightly over the persistent blue-tinged magical barrier and fraying further into multiple disconnected filaments. A crimson glow appeared over Hawke's chest and rapidly expanded, becoming blinding within moments. Anders shielded his eyes and felt a wall of warm force wash over him.

It subsided quickly. When Anders opened his eyes, the cage was gone and Hawke was right in front of him, his face inches away. Darkness filled his eyes but for the same red glow at their centers, and vertigo gripped Anders as he felt a sudden sensation of falling forwards. One of Hawke's hands was wrapped around him, gauntleted palm flat between Anders's shoulder blades, and the other held his chin in a merciless, metal-cold grip.

"Where are you, indeed," Hawke murmured to him. "Wandering mage... seeing things he shouldn't... sneaky. Should be punished for that. Should be punished for lots of things."

"Michael?" Anders asked, unable to keep the fear from his voice this time. "What...?"

Hawke leaned forward to flick his tongue at the mage's ear. "I know where you are," he whispered, their faces just touching. Anders felt Hawke's beard bristling along his cheek. "You're right here, with me." His breath was hot on Anders's ear. "Right where I want you."

His hand on Anders's chin slid down to splay over his chest, and bent his head to sink his teeth brutally into the mage's shoulder. Anders screamed as powerful agony ripped through his entire body. He convulsed, the world dissolved around him except for Hawke's unyielding grip and the horror of his teeth buried in Anders's flesh. Then blinding light burst throughout him and with a violent snap he was awake.

Anders gasped in fear, scrambling to remain upright and get away from the remembered terror of a forgotten enemy that was no longer there. He stumbled backwards, barely keeping his feet as he looked around in astonishment. He was in the chilly common room of the Hawke estate, dim grey light flooding the room from the open windows. Hawke hovered before him in his magical prison, arms at his sides and eyes closed in sleep.

Anders groped at his shoulder that still throbbed with phantom pain. It was undamaged. At that point he also noticed that he was naked except for the pair of Hawke's shorts he'd worn to bed.

Anders made his trembling way over to the chair at the writing desk and collapsed into it. What in the Maker's name had that been? Clearly, more than just a dream.

Heart still pounding, Anders stared at Hawke. He was silent and still. The barrier was solid, the glyphs on the metal collar glowing in their steady, stately crawl as they always had.

He took a few deep breaths to calm down. The air was damp and chill – the fog of yesterday morning, burned away by the afternoon sun, had returned during the night with a vengeance. Despite the unseasonable temperature, every window he could see was thrown open and the chilly breeze was washing through the house in a continuous rustling whisper.

"Anders?" said a voice from the doorway, and the mage jumped with a curse. It was Eingana, standing at the entrance to the sitting room. "Are you alright?"

"I..." How to answer? He still felt the grogginess of sleep in his mind, the dry residue in his eyes from a long rest. He rubbed his face and tried to think clearly. "I had a dream..."

Eingana approached him with a thoughtful frown. "What kind of dream? Darkspawn?"

Anders shook his head. "Not that kind of dream... it was about Michael." He glanced at the sleeping, imprisoned warrior.

"Were you... sleepwalking?" Eingana asked curiously. She indicated Anders's lack of clothes with her hand.

"I suppose I must have been," Anders answered slowly. He peered at Hawke through the fingers of his hands. "It was so vivid... lucid... I thought it was just a dream, but I saw you and Varric in the sitting room... Merrill in the cellar with the dog..."

"That sounds right," Eingana said. "And Hawke? What was he doing?"

Anders shuddered at the fading memory. "He woke up, and it was the... the thing. It had total control of him and it just... washed away the barrier like it was nothing. He said I was sneaky for wandering about, seeing things I shouldn't... something about punishing me for it, and for... other things... and that he had me right where he wanted me. Then he _bit _me, really hard. It's the worst pain I can remember having for a long time. I could _feel _its malice."

Eingana looked disconcerted. "That's way scarier than a darkspawn dream. Do you have any idea what it means?"

Anders shrugged. "I don't know... it might have just been a dream of mine and a dream of Michael's that intersected in the Fade... except, I don't know. It's weird. I saw everything in the estate as it is in reality, _except_ for Michael. He – it, the thing inside him – saw me, and that's when it broke free of the enchantment. It came for me and attacked me. The thing, the entity of coalesced unfocused thought or whatever it is... it's very, very angry. With me the most, probably, for keeping it locked up. I think that maybe, part of what drew it to Michael in the first place is his rage. Rage gives it power, and Michael had – _has_ – rage in spades."

Eingana nodded with a concerned frown on her face. "That sounds logical," she said. "Is there any way you can strengthen the enchantment? Maybe, just in case-"

"You cannot," interrupted a new voice, one resonant with echoing, inhuman power. Eingana whirled and Anders looked up, already knowing with a bitter twist of fear what he would see.

Hawke's eyes were open, black pits staring at them. There was no trace of humanity in his expression. Wisps of red steam-like energy drifted from the corners of his mouth.

"You could no more contain us than you could contain the horizon," Hawke said in an androgynous, demonic voice. The wail behind it rose steadily with each word. Anders felt the voice as a thrum in his chest, and he heard the glass in the windows rattling.

"You keep saying that," Eingana said. "And yet here you are. Contained."

"Warden-Commander – is everything..." Varric appeared at the doorway to the sitting room. He took a look at Hawke and his face fell. "...oh."

"I have got to stop being almost naked when Michael loses control," Anders said bitterly.

"You want me to go get your robe?" Varric asked, his eyes glued to Hawke's face. Hawke turned to look at the dwarf, and Varric backed up a step.

"Uh... yes, please, Varric," Anders said. "That would be helpful. Thank you."

Varric darted up the stairs without another word, clearly glad to be out of Hawke's presence.

Hawke turned to Anders and stared at him silently. His eyes, apart from being black and empty, were inhumanly wide. Eingana swayed a little, obviously also feeling the vertiginous sensation that arose after looking into them too long.

"Enjoy that body while you can," Anders spat at the possessed warrior. "It won't be yours for much longer."

Hawke tilted his head. There was a moment of silence before he answered.

"What body?" he asked. It sounded like multiple voices were speaking the words at once – some whispering, some growling, some wailing as if from a great distance.

"What do you mean _what body_?" Anders snarled, frustration and bitter heartache at his powerlessness filling him with rage. "The body you inhabit right now. The body through which you speak to us. His name is Michael Hawke, and if you were to fight him on equal footing, he'd rip you to shreds and eat your remains."

"Anders," Eingana said softly, putting a supportive hand on his shoulder. "Maybe you shouldn't..."

Anders ignored her.

"We doubt that," the entity answered. It blinked once, slowly, and when its eyes reopened, the red glow of its "pupils" was visible. "We are limitless. We are indestructible."

"Yeah, yeah, you've said that," Anders said. "You have yet to prove it, though. See that magical cage around you? That's a limit. You are limited at this very moment."

"Anders," Eingana hissed urgently to him. "Don't _piss it off_! Don't provoke it into showing off its power."

"Were we anything but what we are, we would call such wise advice," Hawke said. He leaned closer to the barrier, placing his gauntleted hands against it. The magic responded by flaring and emitting a low-pitched buzz. "As it stands, what is already in motion cannot be further provoked. It is too late."

"What are you talking about?" Eingana asked, curiosity overpowering fear and good judgement. Varric returned down the stairs with Anders's robe; he handed it to the mage, who hastily pulled it on and fastened its various straps and buckles.

"This vessel is ours," said the entity. "We have many vessels. We are in many places at once, and nowhere at all. We are you, Grey Warden, and you are us."

Eingana shook her head, but the fear was etched plainly across her face. She continued to shake her head, not wanting to believe what the entity was implying.

"It's lying," Anders said with confidence he didn't really feel. "It's trying to scare us. It knows we're going to kill it and it's scared for _itself_."

Hawke laughed. The sound was wretched and painful to listen to. Anders, Eingana, and Varric all clutched their hands to their ears. The window glass rattled harder than ever, and a series of thumping and banging noises arose from the cellars below.

"Perhaps we are," Hawke said when he had stopped laughing and human, dwarf, and elf had uncovered their ears, wincing from the memory of the awful noise. "Perhaps we merely lack the means to communicate the truth of our nature to you, beings who are so limited by your pitiful language of muscle and pushed air."

Hawke scraped a clawed finger down the inside of the barrier. It flickered and buzzed wildly, and a scar of brightness trailed in the wake of his claw. Eingana's eyes widened, and Anders cursed. He went for his staff, leaning against the wall next to the fireplace.

"Should he be able to do that?" Varric said with barely-contained panic. "Should we, uh... maybe do something? Send for help? I suggest the templars."

"What _are_ you?" Anders asked with desperate fear. He gestured with his staff and free hand, trying to shore up the magic of the cage, but his staff twisted in his hand as if bucking against his volition. A red glow countered the blue aura in his free hand, pushing it back towards the mage until Anders yanked his hand away, cursing in pain.

"Intensity," the entity thundered. "Transfinitude."

One of the windows cracked and a tremor seemed to run through the entire mansion.

Anders tried again, gesturing emphatically with his staff and muttering in ancient Tevinter. Eingana had her enchanted blade drawn and attempted to sever the questing red tendrils that countered his magic; amazingly, it seemed to work. The scar of light on the cage faded away.

Hawke touched his bare chest with both gauntleted hands and carved eight parallel, horizontal gouges across his skin. The runes on his metal collar flared, glowing brighter and brighter with each passing moment.

"Uh, guys?" Varric said.

"What are you doing?" Anders yelled. "Stop! Stop doing that!"

He was a fool. He cursed himself vilely for his lack of foresight. Of course Hawke's gauntlets were metal and could complete the enchantment, but they were also themselves useable as crude weapons.

"Do you see the glow in our eyes?" the entity asked, leaning forward and tilting its head as if to make sure they knew what it meant. "We cannot be killed."

The crimson aura in its eyes wavered like an aurora. The shifting, undulating colour in Hawke's eyes was terrifying. The site was so unnatural and horrifically _wrong_ that Anders's stomach turned. Eingana made a retching noise, similarly affected.

Hawke, dripping blood from the wounds on his chest, reached out to touch the barrier on either side of him. He opened his mouth wide, and a blinding crimson light flared within. All three horrified onlookers threw up arms to shield their eyes as the painful light grew brighter still.

There was a deep ringing noise like the toll of an immense bell, and Anders felt an expanding wave of heat engulf him, pushing him to his knees. It left his skin burning with a painful, crawling itch, like there were living, biting insects all over his body. He trembled and whimpered and pawed at himself, trying to make the sensation go away. It subsided, but only slowly. He blinked furiously, trying to clear the spots from his vision. A metallic clatter made Anders look up, squinting to try and make out what was going on in front of him.

The barrier was gone. The manacles on Hawke's ankles had burst and were lying in pieces behind his feet. The runes on the metal collar were dead and dark, and as Anders watched, Hawke reached up, curled his metal-armoured fingers around it, and pulled it apart as if it were made of soft rubber.

Anders felt a spasm of sick, wrenching horror. Had the entity ever really been contained? Had it been able to free itself all along, and was just biding its time?

An even worse thought struck him: had Hawke's behaviour last night been an act, intended to manipulate him somehow? Learn about him, or – his heart clenched – get him to agree to use the gauntlets instead of the manacles?

No, he told himself desperately. Hawke's eyes had never changed last night. It had been him, the _real _him. It had to have been. _Oh, please, Maker._

Beside him, Eingana appeared to be paralyzed with her sword outstretched threateningly. A bright red version of Anders's oft-used paralysis glyph flashed beneath her feet, sprouting questing scarlet tendrils that crawled perversely up her legs. Varric was curled into a ball on the far side of the room, rocking back and forth and muttering shrilly to himself, surrounded by a purple-red aura that seemed to be stabbing into him and radiating out from him at the same time.

Anders stared in mute terror as Hawke approached him and pulled him to his feet. He felt like he was drowning in the thing's eyes. He struggled ineffectually to get away from it.

"Do not worry, love," the entity said, brushing a strand of loose hair affectionately from Anders's face with one bloodstained claw. "You need not be afraid, or heartsick – not for much longer."

Absurdly, terrifyingly, Anders heard his beloved Michael's voice somewhere in that otherworldly cacophony. The affection behind his words and in his touch was sincere – it was just all but drowned out by the vastness of the entity that held sway over him. Anders latched on to that one glimmer of hope. Hawke was still alive in there, somewhere.

The possessed warrior kissed him with unexpected gentleness, but Anders trembled and whimpered as he felt metal claws gouging the sides of his face and down his neck.

"Soon," Hawke whispered, his eyes pulling Anders into them with irresistible force. "Very soon, now."

The mage felt himself draining away, losing his will, his thoughts, his memory, his very self. Dim, thoughtless pleasure washed through his body.

"This is the last time you will feel any pain," Hawke's voice said, more in his mind than in his ears, his fingers piercing deep into Anders's shoulders and neck. Despite his light-headed euphoria, Anders screamed.

**Ω**


	17. Voices

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Voices"**

Anders drifted in a surreal, hazy world of equilibrant pain and pleasure. The heated sting of Hawke's metal claws embedded in his skin was also a paradoxical source of soothing, blissful warmth. The blackness of his lover's eyes was all Anders could see, and he couldn't move, hear, or even think. Consequently, time lost all meaning; it could have been several minutes or a mere few moments before the hypnosis abruptly ended with an agonizing scraping sensation down his chest and an otherworldly wail. Anders, brought back to his senses with shocking suddenness, barely managed not to fall over backwards.

Hawke staggered away from him, clutching his head and making the horrid noise while grotesque twitches and shudders wracked the whole of his body. A dense cloud of dark red energy was attacking his head, filling his mouth, nose, and ears. He clawed at it desperately, emitting a keening wail that made the window glass rattle noisily.

Anders blinked furiously, his thoughts still muddled from whatever the creature had done to him. He clutched at the savage wounds on his neck and upper chest, groping instinctively for restorative magic. It came sluggishly at first; the pale blue aura knit at least some of his rent skin back together, and the reduction in pain helped him focus.

He looked around, searching for Hawke's attacker. It was Merrill, standing at the entrance to the estate's cellars with her hand raised in a twisted gesture. Her wrist dripped blood that sparkled eerily as it was consumed to power her spell. Her other hand held a bloodied knife.

"Anders!" she called, her pale face showing the strain of the magic she was using to keep Hawke in check. "Help the others!"

Yes. Good idea. He snatched at his staff, lying on the floor at his feet. It took him a few tries to close his fingers around it; his mind was still in disarray, his wounds still not fully healed.

He chanced a glance at Hawke. The possessed warrior was backed against the wall next to the writing desk. He was no longer howling in agony; instead, he snarled furiously as he lashed out at the amorphous red cloud that had pressed itself over him like a blanket. Electrical energy danced along the claws of his gauntlets, tearing rents in the cloud wherever he slashed, but the openings closed again as quickly as they appeared. Wherever the magic touched Hawke's skin, he twitched away with a pained grunt. His shoulders and knees jerked in crude convulsions, preventing him from standing up straight.

Anders took a deep breath and settled his mind into a forced, focused calm. Eingana was still paralyzed in front of him, the crimson glyph beneath her feet ensnaring her up to her chest with creeping, entwining fingers of malevolent energy. Across the room, Varric had stopped twitching and muttering, the spell affecting his mind having apparently ceased with Merrill's attack on its source. The dwarf was lying facedown, unmoving.

Anders thought how best to help the Warden-Commander and decided quickly on a spell of unraveling. He readied the necessary energies, using his staff crystal as a counter-focus from which to lever the neutralizing forces. He pulled back with one hand to symbolically draw loose the threads of magic.

The resistance he encountered was both unexpected and shocking in its intensity. Impossibly, the simple paralysis glyph reacted with violence to his attempt at dispelling it, as if it were intelligently seeking to preserve its own existence. It yanked back on Anders's spell, not only maintaining its own integrity but leeching the mage's mana to strengthen itself. His staff crystal shuddered and flared a dark, evil red; Anders felt the vibration in the shaft of his staff.

"Maker's breath!" he gasped. Instinctively, he tugged right back, but with much greater magical force. This time, he was successful; the magic of the red glyph was drawn through his staff and dissipated harmlessly. The glyph faded, the paralyzing tendrils retreated, and Eingana collapsed to her hands and knees, sword pinned beneath her hand and gasping for breath like she'd been running for an hour.

"Anders," she choked out. "Help... weak. So weak..."

Her arms trembled, barely able to keep her upright. The glyph had not only paralyzed her, but left her utterly drained. Anders rushed to her side and reached down to touch the nape of her neck, infusing the weakened Warden-Commander with a powerful rejuvenation spell. Her trembling rapidly subsided and she caught her breath.

"Andraste's holy haberdasher," Eingana hissed. Anders reached down to help her to her feet, and she accepted his hand gratefully.

"There's a new one," Anders commented nervously, eyeing the struggling, growling warrior still pinned against the wall. "The spell _and _the curse – very creative."

"Thank you. What in the Maker's name did he do to me?"

"I have no idea," Anders said. "It was like my paralysis glyph, but red, and it reacted violently when I tried to dispel it."

"Note for future reference," Eingana said. "Possessed Hawke's magic is apparently self-aware and capable of defending itself."

"Good to know." Anders scowled.

"Help Varric," Eingana said. She retrieved her enchanted longsword and leveled it in Hawke's direction; she drew its mundane twin from the sheath at her waist and kept it defensively at her side. "I'll watch him."

Anders hurried over to the prone dwarf. Nearby, the blood in Merrill's casting wound had already started to congeal, so she'd added another deep scratch parallel to the first. Her wounded arm was outstretched, fingers working at the invisible hooks of blood magic attached to her cloud, while her other hand gestured beneath the dripping wound to catch and shape the power of her own blood.

"I can't keep this up forever, Anders," Merrill said with an edge of desperate fear in her voice. "He's powering through it... it's taking more and more energy just to keep him where he is."

As if to emphasize her point, Hawke let out an enraged howl that released a faint sphere of red-tinted power. Eingana staggered backwards; another window shattered behind her and several items of furniture were knocked around violently. Merrill cringed in pain and took a half step backwards, but managed to keep Hawke pinned.

"You're doing great, Merrill," Anders said in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. He turned the unconscious dwarf over to examine him. "You've saved all our lives – just keep it up for a little longer. We'll think of something."

_Like what?_ he asked himself. Pray for a miracle? Send for help and hope Hawke didn't kill them all before the templars arrived and killed _him_?

He couldn't think about that. He had to focus on what he _could_ do, instead of succumbing to despair at what he couldn't. Right now, what he could do was help Varric.

The dwarf's eyes were moving rapidly beneath his closed lids; he seemed to be caught in an intense dream or vision. Anders drew power along his staff to his other hand and brushed his splayed fingers over the dwarf's forehead.

Varric started awake. "Bartrand!" he called. "You-ahahaaghh." He subsided into a coughing fit.

"Varric," Anders said. "Are you alright?"

Varric's eyes opened wider as he noticed Anders hovering over him, and he seemed to come fully awake. He recovered from his coughing fit and nodded.

"Hawke?" he asked as Anders leaned back, helping the dwarf to his feet.

"Merrill's got him," Anders said. "Not for long, though – any ideas?"

"Think fast," Merrill groaned, sweat dripping down her face. Her hands shook as she sliced a third casting wound into the flesh of her arm. Eingana glanced over with concern in her eyes. Hawke lurched forward, slashing at the blood magic spell, and with a pained noise of exertion Merrill pushed him back again.

"Your trap," Varric said. "The thing you did where the entire city's magic laid Hawke flat on his back. ...So to speak. Can you do that again?"

"I could try," Anders said doubtfully. "I don't know if the glyph would work twice in the same spot – the reservoir connected to that axis might be drained. And would he fall for it again?"

"Counter his magic," Merrill said in a strained voice. "He has so much _power... _or _it_ does, whatever's inside him. Do you have anything that reflects hostile spells, Anders? Amulets, enchanted rings, anything?"

"Yes!" Anders said. "I mean – no, I don't, but Hawke does – he keeps a chest of enchanted stuff he's found all over the place since he arrived in Kirkwall – I know at least some of it reflects enemy magic."

"Go and get it!" Merrill said. "But... be quick..." she groaned and fell to one knee. Hawke thrust his hands through the roiling cloud and nearly separated it into two. It remained intact and impenetrable to the enraged warrior, but only barely.

"Daisy!" Varric reached out a concerned hand to her.

"Let me rejuvenate you," Anders said, touching a hand to his staff crystal.

Merrill shook her head, a tear of pain in her eye. "Don't. It will interfere with the blood magic. Just... I'll be okay... for a little longer."

"Here, Daisy," Varric said, pulling back his sleeve. "If it helps, use my blood. Don't kill yourself trying to save us."

Merrill glanced down at the dwarf's bared arm. She hesitated for only a second. "Thank you, Varric," she said, relief and guilt in her voice. She drew her knife and swept it greedily along Varric's forearm. He winced and hissed in pain, clenching his hand into a fist. Sparkles of power rose from the blood welling up from the new wound.

"Can't believe I'm doing this," Varric muttered. "I suppose this will make a good story... embellished a bit here and there, and with names changed to protect the innocent, of course..." He laughed ironically. "Hah! The _innocent_."

"Go, Anders," Merrill said with renewed determination. She twisted her wrists furiously, and the scarlet force restraining Hawke sprouted pseudopods to bat his metal claws away.

Anders wasted no more time and rushed up the stairs. He thought of Bodahn and Sandal as he crossed the mezzanine and wondered where they were. He couldn't remember seeing them anywhere in the estate during his dream-vision – it was likely they were out in town somewhere. He could only be glad that neither would be in the path of Hawke's fury, but was the rest of Kirkwall really any safer, with the Veil critically weakened as it was?

There was no time to think about such things. In Hawke's chamber, Anders dove down to draw a simple chest out from under the bed and threw it open. Inside were several pieces of enchanted jewelry that Hawke had collected over the years. Some were in their own compartments to prevent the magical forces contained within them from conflicting with other pieces, but most were massed in a disorganized tangle.

Just like Michael, Anders thought. If he didn't need any of them right then, there was no point paying any attention to them or trying to keep them neat.

Forcing down the surge of heartache that welled up within him, Anders closed his eyes and cast out with his magical senses, looking for any rings or amulets that would neutralize or deflect incoming magic. In the confused mass of varying enchantments, he detected four or five voids and two hard, spherical barriers. Exactly what he was looking for. There was one more that felt sort of right, but its magical signature was bizarre and unfamiliar. It felt like it would distort incoming magic, possibly with a number of other effects; Anders was in too much of a hurry to examine it more closely.

He reached in, still with his eyes closed, allowing his mana to guide him to the pieces he needed. He had to disentangle a few of the amulets from the cords of other amulets, but he forced himself to be patient lest he worsen the knots of leather bands and metallic chains. Eventually he teased them all free and was rewarded with four rings and four amulets, including the strange one that he thought would distort magic rather than deflect it.

Curious, Anders held up the pendant to the diffuse light of the overcast afternoon entering through the window. It was a simple translucent shape bound on a leather cord; glimmers of darkness curled beneath its surface, which reflected light with a watery quality that made it seem not quite solid. In the center was a piece of what appeared to be carved horn or bone.

Squinting at the amulet, Anders felt a subtle, alien sensation in the back of his mind. He felt a breath of wind on his face even though the window was closed. An image of Michael Hawke formed in his thoughts – Michael Hawke as he had been before being possessed, angry and violent but not really evil. Yearning welled up within him, made distant and painful by the circumstances of a reality that he could not change. With a remote corner of his awareness, Anders thought he heard a deep, gravelly voice whispering to him in a strange language.

He looked up, startled. Was there someone else in the room with him? No – he was alone.

"What..." he asked, staring into the cloudy, ebony gleam of the amulet. He'd never seen or felt anything quite like it.

_Asit tal-eb, _whispered the voice. _It is to be._

"No," Anders responded, barely aware of what he was saying. A tear traced its way down his cheek. "Michael... I want him back as he was. I _need_ him. He would never forgive me if I let him be consumed by this... thing. He cannot end like this."

_Existence is a choice, _the voice murmured in his mind. _A self of suffering brings only suffering to the world. It is a choice, and we can refuse it._

"Yes," Anders said. "Yes."

He got a grip on his emotions and clenched the gathered amulets in his fist. He closed the chest, shoved it back under the bed with his foot, and raced back out to the stairs. He draped the strange amulet over his neck and tried on a few of the neutralizing rings before he found one that fit. The stress of the situation made him forget the voice and the strange reaction it had provoked from him until much, much later.

In the common room, Hawke was slashing ferociously with the claws of his gauntlets at Merrill's spell of blood magic, and he appeared on the verge of rending it entirely apart. As he descended the stairs, Anders quickly sorted the remaining rings and amulets into pairs. He selected one of the hard deflection barriers for Varric and the other for Merrill, thinking that Eingana with her lightning reflexes might be able to deflect some of Hawke's magic with her sword.

Anders reached the bottom of the stairs and dropped a ring and amulet into Varric's hand and gave another pair to Merrill.

"Thanks, Blondie," Varric said, putting on the ring and slipping the amulet over his head. His arm now bore a second wound; Merrill was drawing freely from both herself and the dwarf to power her spell. "Let's hope this works."

"I hope you have a plan, Anders," Merrill whispered, the strain etching lines of pain on her face.

Anders rushed to Eingana and gave her the remaining ring and amulet. She barely had time to slip them on before Merrill collapsed to her knees with a cry of pain and Hawke lunged forward, eyes burning and shrieking with fury.

Anders leapt backwards to avoid the slash of Hawke's claws. He noticed with alarm and fear that the pointed metal fingers of the warrior's gauntlets now sported actual blades of gleaming red energy. The claws on his armour were no longer just symbolic or meant to intimidate. They were deadly weapons.

Eingana's swords flashed up to deflect Hawke's strike. He whirled in a blur of muscle and red magic, engaging her as easily and as skillfully as if he had actual swords in his hands. Eingana was forced backwards, on the defensive and barely able to keep Hawke's claws from her face and neck.

Anders darted around behind Hawke and pointed his staff at the warrior's bare, exposed back. He gathered as much power as his staff crystal could contain and wove it into an entropic spell of paralyzing weakness. He launched it as soon as it was complete, not wanting to give the entity inside Hawke a moment more to sense and counter what he was doing.

The spell hit Hawke square in the back and he faltered, stumbling forward. Eingana danced away from his descending claws, barely getting her blades out of the way in time to avoid wounding Hawke on the arm. Anders nodded – fortunately, Eingana had remembered that injuring Hawke only made the entity stronger.

"Knock him out!" Anders suggested to the Warden-Commander. She raised her enchanted longsword, preparing to strike Hawke on the head with the flat of the blade while he was disoriented.

Determined to take advantage of the opportunity he'd created, Anders rapidly wove another spell, this time one meant to stun Hawke by hypnotizing him into hearing deafening bangs that eclipsed all other noise and seeing blinding light everywhere he looked.

Noting his intent, Merrill unstrapped her staff from her back and prepared to strike at the same time. The carved, curling wood of her staff glittered with purple magic – not powered by her blood this time, but by conventional mana.

Hawke straightened, shaking off Anders's spell. It had been strong enough to disable a qunari for an hour, but was little impediment to the entity's power. As he turned to Eingana and raised his claws to strike, his face twisted with rage and his eyes burning with twisting red bands, the flat of the Warden-Commander's blade descended onto his head. At the same time, a white bolt of power lanced into Hawke from Anders's staff and purple-grey energy condensed from the air around him at Merrill's command.

Hawke yelled in pain, and the sound was like hollow glassware scraping against brick. It sent rippling discomfort creeping over Anders's skin. Hawke collapsed to his hands and knees, head rolling back and forth as if trying to dislodge a clinging animal.

"Sleep," Anders said to Merrill, and she nodded. Both prepared a spell to send Hawke into a deep coma, timing it so they would be cast simultaneously.

It almost worked. The two mages were on the verge of completing their dual spell when Hawke moved with startling speed, manipulating magical forces faster than Anders knew was fundamentally possible for any practitioner of magic, mage or demon. He blinked as a brief but intense pain washed over him, and when he'd recovered from the sudden movement and swirls of red light, Hawke was standing the middle of the room with his arms raised. Anders, Merrill, Varric, and Eingana were suspended in the air before and behind him and to either side, immobilized by irresistible forces. None of them could move so much as a finger.

Anders almost choked on his despair. What would it take? Was there nothing that could defeat this creature? Perhaps they should have alerted the templars sooner, after all. He couldn't stand the thought that his failure to do so might very well have doomed the entire city of Kirkwall to this thing's terror and malice. He still had his staff in his hand, but without being able to gesture with it or speak words of power, the little magic he could summon would be pitifully inadequate.

Hawke turned slowly, long, worm-like sparks of power twisting around his hands and arms. He stopped when he faced Anders.

"Our love," he said. "Why do you fight us? What do these insects tell you about us to make you strike at us and try to limit us?"

Anders couldn't answer and probably wouldn't have anyway. What would he say to such a creature? How could he reason with a being he barely even understood?

"Let us play a game," Hawke intoned. "The four of you – each with your own skills. Not insignificant, any of you. Even alone. In the mazes beneath us... yes."

Anders stared in amazement as a subtle change crept over Hawke. The redness faded from his eyes until they were only darkness. His stance became minutely different, somehow – he hunched slightly, his fingers curled, his lips pulled back from his teeth. Instead of standing loftily erect and tossing around magical forces with blithe unconcern, he started to look more like Michael Hawke.

"It has been too long since I have tasted the violence of true combat," he said, and Ander's eyes widened as the change became even more obvious. Not only had the entity stopped referring to itself in plural pronouns, but its voice sounded almost like Hawke did normally, with only the addition of the resonant thrum Anders could detect in his lungs and ribs.

"Too long since I have smelled the fear of one who knows his fate and fights it anyway..." Hawke continued in an almost wistful tone. "Tasted my foes' blood and reveled in their terror and agony as my blade rends their flesh..."

His eyes fell on Anders. Even though they were black and soulless, the mage could feel the entity's gaze burning into him.

"Too long since I have tasted the carnal pleasure of flesh, bent to my will and utterly within my control," Hawke whispered, and Anders felt a flash of real terror creep up his spine. Part of him didn't like where this was going at all, but an even deeper part, the part he kept shamefully suppressed and hidden even from himself most of the time, felt a thrill of anticipation, and that scared him almost as much as Hawke's words.

The warrior's gauntleted hands opened, and the world warped around Anders in a sickening twist of red light. He spun through banded, spiraling darkness, shadows and light reaching out to grab him as he plummeted and force him in this direction or that. He fought to contain his nausea, eyes squeezed tightly shut and keeping a death grip on his staff.

Then it was over, and with a flash and a painful, stomach-turning lurch, he was thrown forwards onto a dusty floor. Anders coughed, his body wracked with a residual throb of pain, barely managing not to vomit.

Panting to catch his breath, Anders looked up. He was in a dim corridor somewhere beneath the Hawke estate. He had no idea where specifically, because the entire labyrinthine network looked much the same: dry wooden planks, thickly layered dust, the occasional lantern or candle for illumination, and the soft, cloying smell of mould. The cellars of the estate were extensive, and bled indistinctly into the Undercity in several places, all but one of which were sealed. He could conceivably be one level below the common room, miles away from it in the twisting bowels of Darktown, or anywhere in between.

Anders clambered to his feet, using his staff as a crutch, and looked around. He was alone – Merrill, Varric, and Eingana were nowhere in sight and likely not within earshot either. If what the entity controlling Hawke had said accurately reflected its intentions, it was likely that the three of them had also been deposited somewhere in the labyrinth. Far apart, probably.

And for what purpose? Hawke intended to hunt them all down, for sport?

Anders shivered. What had the thing said? _Let us play a game_.

"Fucking wonderful," the mage muttered mordantly. Before he could think to do anything else, icy cold magic shot up through his body from his feet and a sinister voice filled his mind.

_Be patient, my love_, said the voice. His mind's eye was filled with an image of Hawke's face, eyes black with evil and a feral grin on his face. His teeth and lips were bloody. _I will find you_.

Abruptly, such an abject, irrational terror filled him that the repressed logical part of his mind was convinced it had to be magically induced. The notion was of no comfort. For almost a minute, Anders was paralyzed with gibbering dread, curled into a ball against the wall and hiding his face in his arms. He couldn't speak or breathe or think through the insane, sourceless fear that had come upon him from nowhere.

Finally, it subsided, and Anders took a few moments to catch his breath and slow his racing heart. _I will find you, _Hawke had said. Then he'd been given a taste of what he would feel when the possessed warrior followed through on his threat, as he inevitably would. Was that what he had to look forward to, except with the knowledge that it was real fear, not induced from afar by magic? With Hawke leaning over him, brutalizing his body and slowly peeling apart the layers of his mind until he was crazed and delusional with agony and terror and no longer even fit to be called a sapient being?

Anders scowled as he got to his feet for a second time. Was that supposed to _motivate _him?

The talisman on his chest glowed with sudden warmth, producing a comfortable sensation against the skin of his chest. Anders barely noticed it as an answering spark from deep within him eclipsed all sensation. A slow, cold, and furious wrath began to rise from the pit of his stomach with the harsh inevitability of a tide coming in. It spread throughout his body and along his limbs with the tingling heat of blind rage.

At that moment, Anders realized that he was deeply, caustically _sick_ of this creature. It had tormented Hawke unendingly and usurped his body for its own amusement. It had tortured and abused Anders himself. It had harmed his friends in multiple ways and had indirectly unleashed a minor demonic invasion on the entire city. When and where would it end? What would it take to satisfy the beast? And most importantly, what would that cost? How many more lives, innocent or otherwise, would be affected by its rampage? How many would be ended, and of those, how many would die in savage agony and mind-rending terror? Not just him, he knew. Nor just Michael Hawke himself and their friends. Many.

No more, Anders vowed. Not _one_ more, not ever again. He'd had enough.

The spirit of Justice surged within him, long repressed and now stirred once more into seething activity. Vibrant blue energy raced along his limbs. Cracks opened in his skin through which blinding azure light shone. His eyes glowed with power. Blue fire washed over his body, hardening and strengthening him and erasing the remnants of the wounds on his neck. Deep reservoirs of magic that Anders had forgotten he had ever had access to were once more open to him.

"No more," Anders said quietly, his voice resonant with Justice's deep, burning ire. "This has gone on for far too long."

The attack of magical fear had perhaps been intended to spur him to run around, work himself up into the same paralytic terror on his own, or to seek out one of the others and try to come up with a plan to subdue Hawke that would inevitably fail. All it had done was make Anders angry and utterly, brutally determined not to give in, ever again. The entity had had them all on the run or kept afraid and off balance for so long, but now it had finally made a mistake. Anders would have Michael Hawke back and free of the entity's influence, and then he would make it pay for ever daring to cross either one of them.

He swirled his staff in a solid, confident arc, casting out his magical senses in a wide net, probing his surroundings and establishing a detailed magical map in his mind. He was several levels below the Hawke estate, not quite in Darktown and a considerable distance from the common room. He sensed several sparks of life within his awareness – one was Varric, one was Eingana, one was Merrill, and one was Hawke's Mabari hound, Reaver. The others were farther off, residents of Darktown and of no consequence. They would be safe from Hawke's wrath unless he decided to leave the labyrinth, and Anders would make sure that wouldn't happen.

Varric was nearest to him. Anders set off with a powerful stride, and the air whirled with his passing.

**ασυνέχεια**

Eingana was just able to keep a grip on her blades as she was violently spun by Hawke's magic down into the depths of the estate, but she was rather concerned about what might happen when the forced, tumultuous journey came to an end. It would surely disappoint the creature if she ended up impaled on her own swords before it could torture and maul her to death – not that _she_ would appreciate such a scenario any more.

The Warden-Commander emerged from whatever strange magical state she'd been in several feet above a dirty grey floor. It was good that she had a moment – a fraction of a second, but a moment nonetheless – to get her swords out from under her falling body and thereby avoid disemboweling herself with them as she landed. It was bad, however, that she fell from several feet and landed face down, unable to break her fall with her hands because of her swords.

She hit hard with a thump and a pained grunt, turning her face so as not to break her nose. The burning ache of the entity's magic still throbbed through her, so she rested a moment in the position in which she'd landed, catching her breath as she waited for the intense discomfort to subside.

Eingana couldn't help a groan of pain as she pushed herself slowly to her feet. Her entire body hurt from the impact, particularly her chest and face, but she would live. She twisted her body cautiously, glad to detect none of the awful, scraping pain that signified broken ribs.

A careful examination of her surroundings informed her that she was indeed somewhere in the estate's extensive cellars, but as to where specifically, there was no way to know. The walls and floorboards were stained and dusty and otherwise nondescript; the stench of rot was almost strong enough to be overpowering. When she held her breath and listened intently, Eingana could hear nothing at all but a very faint, distant, irregular thumping and a barely-audible series of clicks and scratches far ahead that was likely caused by rats. The only illumination, which was deeply inadequate, came from a dim, battered lantern hung some distance down the corridor next to a doorway. A warm glow flickered weakly within the room, as if from candles or a small fire.

Eingana approached the doorway cautiously, her footsteps utterly silent, mundane longsword held ready to strike. She kept her enchanted blade down at her side so the flicker of its magic wouldn't alert anyone in the room observant enough to notice it. When she reached the threshold, Eingana flattened herself against the wall and peered around it very slowly and carefully.

The room appeared to be a study or library, long disused. There was a bookshelf along one wall that still held some crumbling volumes in its corners. A ragged, moth-eaten sofa sagged in the middle of the room next to a broken table and the rotted remnants of an oval rug. The only sign of life was the fireplace, freshly dusted and with a small fire crackling merrily in its hearth.

As far as Eingana could tell, the room was empty. But who had lit the fire? It couldn't be more than an hour old. Suspicious, she moved around to stand in the doorway and get a better look at the entire room.

Instantly, the fire exploded into a swarm of sparks and whirling flame. It shot towards the startled Warden-Commander as she leapt backwards with sharp intake of breath. The cloud of living flame contorted from a loose vortex into a crude caricature of a man, his hands tipped with long, serrated claws. Even though the magical construct's face was an indistinct blur of twisting fire, Eingana recognized Michael Hawke.

The construct opened its mouth and wailed as it rushed at her, and though Eingana picked up a distant demonic howl, it seemed to come from a long ways off. Right before the fiery man reached her, claws raised to strike, Eingana slashed at it with her enchanted longsword. The construct dissipated rapidly, leaving only an uncomfortable blast of heat and ash washing over her and a far off echo of distant laughter.

"So that's how it's going to be," Eingana muttered, brushing soot from her face. "A game, is it? We'll see, creature."

She entered the room to look around, just in case there really was anything worthwhile in there, but without the illumination of the fire it was nearly impossible to see anything; the lantern next to the door was pitiful and nearly empty. A few embers still glowed in the hearth; aside from the ruined furniture, there seemed to be nothing else in the room anyways.

Eingana sighed, sheathed her mundane longsword, and picked up the lantern from its hook. Its light only revealed a pathetically tiny circle around her, and its supply of oil wouldn't last more than twenty minutes, but it was better than trying to make her way blindly or by the even more pathetic light of her sword's enchantment. She started off down the hall, thinking.

Anders, Merrill, and Varric were likely down here somewhere as well. If she could find them, they would certainly stand a better chance together against the creature than alone. But the entity influencing Hawke clearly had very powerful magic at its command; if it could see her and taunt her with fiery constructs from afar, what were the chances it would allow its prey to unite against it? Further, what were Eingana's chances of finding one of them before Hawke came for her, or killed the others? She knew little about the layout of Darktown, the network of sewers and corridors that honeycombed the depths of Kirkwall and which the cellars of the Hawke estate connected to at certain deep points. In fact, this was only the second time she'd been down here, the first being to lure Hawke over Anders's magical trap. Bodahn had advised her against exploring the cellars when she'd arrived a few days ago, saying it was easy to get lost in the endless identical corridors.

Eingana didn't doubt that. She counted herself lucky that the corridor she was following hadn't branched yet, because she had no idea which way was best. For all she knew, she was heading deeper into the confusing maze. The darkness around her was chilly, and she couldn't shake a persistent, uneasy feeling that it was pressing in on her. She was grateful for the lantern and the psychological security of its unsteady light, but if it died before she found another...

Eingana shuddered. She didn't want to consider that possibility.

As she rounded a ninety-degree bend, Eingana's sensitive ears picked up noise, and she froze. The clicking and scratching she'd heard earlier was considerably louder where she was now. There was no way it was coming from rats in the walls; its source was unmistakably just a little ways ahead of her, shrouded in the darkness beyond the lantern's meager illumination. It sounded like a large animal pawing around.

Eingana's heart picked up. Hawke's dog had been down in the cellars with Merrill before the possessed warrior had escaped his prison. If he was still down here, he would be a big help to her. Mabari hounds were smart enough that she could ask Reaver to find the others, and his nose would lead her right to them.

The company would be nice, too.

"Reaver?" Eingana called softly, raising the lantern high in a futile attempt to extend its light farther.

The scratching and snuffling stopped, and an enthused bark answered her from the darkness. She heard the fall of heavy paws heading towards her, but before the dog had apparently taken more than a few steps, a loud crack shook the corridor. Light flashed ahead, blinding Eingana's dark-adjusted eyes. She recoiled, squeezing her eyes shut reflexively, but too late to prevent searing spots from crawling across her vision.

She heard a pained whine from the Mabari hound, and a spike of fear touched her heart. Surely the entity controlling Hawke had access to his memories – it would know his dog's capabilities, and what a boon it would be to her in these shadow-choked corridors. It was easy to deduce that it would try and prevent the two from reaching one another, but would the memory of Hawke's affection for his dog be enough to stop the creature from killing him?

"Reaver?" Eingana called out, louder this time in her concern. She stepped forward, still blinking furiously to clear the spots from her eyes, and she was immediately knocked backwards by a powerful magical force. The blinding burst of light that accompanied it set back her attempt at recovering her night vision considerably, the near-physical pain it caused her eyes notwithstanding. Reaver whined again, so she at least knew he was alive, but Hawke was apparently determined not to allow the Warden-Commander access to his dog, or vice versa.

Eingana made a frustrated noise as she recovered her feet. She spent some time rubbing her forehead and eyes, blinking rapidly and trying to assuage the sudden headache the bright flashes had given her. Eventually she could see again, mostly, and she would be prepared for future attacks of blinding light.

Carefully, eyes squinted, Eingana reached out with the tip of her sword. Before she'd fully extended her arm, she met increasingly difficult resistance. Spidery threads of light sprouted in midair from the point of her sword; when she pushed, the threads extended further and glowed more brightly, and a shimmering barrier became visible in the same plane.

Annoyed, Eingana pulled her arm back and slashed down hard with her blade. The very air before her seemed to splinter, and with her eyes covered the eruption of light was nowhere near as debilitating as the previous ones had been. There was a sound like a soft, stuttering thunderclap, and the light faded. Eingana strode forward, unimpeded, and a smirk crossed her face.

She kept her sword out in front of her in case the barrier that had halted Reaver was still intact. It was – she ran into it a dozen paces later, and to her intense relief, the dog was unharmed on the other side. He bounced around happily as she approached.

"Stand back, Reaver, and close your eyes," Eingana said, and the dog obeyed, backing away with a soft woof. His eyes closed. Eingana smiled, closed her own eyes, and stabbed hard with her sword. The second barrier broke, and Reaver bounded up to her, barking joyously.

"Hey there, doggy," Eingana said with affection in her voice. "Calm down now, and listen to me."

Reaver stopped his boisterous on-the-spot dancing and sat down to look at her attentively.

"Thank you. Now, look – I know I'm not your master or anything..."

Reaver growled softly and narrowed his eyes at her. Eingana took this as confirmation of her words.

"Right. Just relax, hoss. You do know your actual master is possessed, right? That was him that just tried to keep us away from each other."

Reaver growled again and snapped his teeth aggressively.

"No, you're right, it wasn't him," Eingana said hastily. "Poor choice of words. But there is an evil, evil thing controlling him – it's using his body against his will, and it's that thing that made the magical barriers."

Reaver made a sad whining noise.

"Exactly. He put me down here, and Merrill, Varric, and Anders too... down in this dark, dank, cramped... dark..." Eingana shuddered as she looked around. "Creepy maze of corridors and abandoned rooms. He's trying to kill us. He'll succeed if we don't think of a way to stop him."

Reaver tilted his head and looked at her inquiringly.

"Yeah. And then the entity will consume Hawke utterly and callously use your master's nicely-shaped muscles and absurdly huge sword to go on a killing spree. He'll kill _everyone_, Reaver. Humans, dwarves, elves... even the dogs."

Reaver snarled and barked angrily at her.

"I know, right? So will you help me find the others? If we find Anders, Merrill, and Varric, we'll have a chance, together, to save Hawke... first we'll have to fight him to get him under control, but when Wynne arrives she'll know how we can get him back. Your master, normal and sane."

Reaver blinked and stepped around a bit, pulling off a convincingly confused expression despite his lack of human features.

"Alright," Eingana relented. "Probably not sane. As sane as he was beforehand, let me put it that way. Just as... crazy and bloodlusty and constantly pissed off as I'm told he used to be, but with no awful demonic thing trying to take over his body and kill all his friends."

Reaver barked happily several times. Strange dog, Eingana thought. Just like his master.

"Partners, then?" Eingana asked. "We have a deal? You help me find the others and help us get out of these tunnels, or whatever they are, and I'll help you get your master back like he was."

Reaver looked at her like he was considering her offer. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, licking his teeth.

"And I'll throw in a lamb bone for... trust, and as a gesture of goodwill," Eingana said, getting the picture.

Reaver danced around exuberantly and woofed his approval. Eingana sighed in relief. "Thank you. Lead on, then – Varric, Merrill, or Anders, whoever's closest."

Reaver turned around and put his nose to the floor, sniffing industriously. He padded off into the darkness, and Eingana followed with the lantern, keeping her sword at the ready.

"Maker, it's like I'm back in Ferelden," Eingana commented to no one in particular as she broke into a light jog to keep up with Reaver. "The Free Marches are nice, but you just can't bargain with the dogs here like you can at home."

**Ω**


	18. Gloom

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Gloom"**

Merrill advanced through the dingy corridors at a creep. The soft swirl of light from her staff was barely adequate for her to put one foot in front of the other, which she did with the utmost care for silence. Her entire body was tense with fear, ears perked and listening intently for the slightest noise. Though her heart was pounding, Merrill forced herself to take deep, even breaths.

She had no idea where she was, but she was certain that Hawke – or whatever insane creature he'd become – was hunting her and out for vengeance. She'd kept him pinned against the wall with blood magic for several minutes, and she'd seen how angry it made him. Of course, he was always angry, but _especially_ so in volatile situations like that one. And even more so since he'd been possessed by an entity of pure distraction, Merrill mused.

She remembered being awed at his sheer ferocity in combat, the strength with which he swung his blade and how it always seemed to find a limb or a neck even though he was howling with rage the entire time. And his muscles moved in such nice ways when he did it. Not that Dalish men were unattractive, but there was nobody she knew of like Hawke. She'd always taken a secret pleasure in watching him fight.

Of course, that was before it was _her_ on the receiving end of his wrath. Now Merrill was more starkly terrified than she'd ever been in her life. She _knew_, without a shred of doubt, that Hawke was coming for her, and when he did she would have one chance – if she even saw him coming – to disable him long enough to flee. And then he would recover and come after her anyway, so she was pretty much doomed.

Merrill would have stayed still and hid if she thought it would get her anywhere, but her only real chance was to find the others for strength in numbers. She still had no idea how they could incapacitate the possessed warrior without killing him, but surely there was _something _that could be done. She had blood magic, and Anders had Justice. Eingana had an enchanted longsword and Varric... Varric was really smart. That would have to be enough. Still, she couldn't bring herself to move at a pace faster than a crawl because she didn't want to make noise and attract attention.

A whisper of breath in the stale air made her pause. She heard soft footsteps above her – someone was passing through the corridor on the level above.

Merrill waited, absolutely still, convinced that it was Hawke above her and that he would hear the pounding of her heart, blast down through the ceiling and carve her up with his unreasonably huge blade. Really, she thought-babbled with near-hysteric bemusement, did his sword have to be _that_ big? Merrill was sure that Michael Hawke was strong enough to cut a man in half with a cheese knife if he really wanted to. She supposed it _was _more expedient with the huge sword – it would take a long time with the cheese knife. But Aveline had a shorter sword and it seemed to work just as well, plus she could carry a shield. Hawke wasn't the kind of guy who Merrill could ever picture using a shield. Maybe picking up one of those round ones from a dead person and throwing it at someone else...

The footsteps receded into the distance, and Merrill breathed a silent exhalation of relief. She started moving again.

A minute or so later she arrived at an intersection, the first she'd seen in the half an hour or so she'd been down here. There were three choices. Which to take?

Merrill risked increasing her staff's light output a fraction so she could see farther straight ahead and in each direction down the perpendicular corridor. She could make out nothing except more dusty, mouldy darkness.

Any one of them might lead her to Varric, Anders, or Eingana, or even back to the familiar cellars beneath the Hawke estate, Merrill thought. Of course they might also lead her right to Hawke himself, or get her even more hopelessly lost.

It occurred to her that the footsteps she had heard might have belonged to one of the others. Varric, or perhaps Anders – Eingana was an elf, she would never put her feet down with such plodding, unnecessary noise. Still, Merrill would have given much to have the wisecracking dwarf at her side right now to reassure her and pick a corridor, or Anders's calm insight and finely developed magical senses. He was much better at finding his way through confusing, unfamiliar environments with magic than she was. Should she have called out when she heard the footsteps? No, that would have been foolish – if they had been Hawke's, she would have been dead, and even if not she might have just given away her position to him.

Merrill fretted silently in the darkness for a minute or two. She had to stop waffling on things like this or she would get nowhere. If she held back on making a decision because it might lead to danger, she risked allowing danger to find her standing there like an idiot, doing nothing.

The problem was she wasn't any good at this kind of thing. Merrill was not an adventurer. She a Dalish keeper, or so she liked to think of herself, despite being a hated exile from her clan and technically not a keeper at all. That was beside the point. Hawke was the adventurer, and she was his companion... assistant... helpful blood mage person. She fought hostile blood mages for him and used her magic to take out anyone who tried to kill his dog, or who tried to attack him while his back was turned – because he was busy hacking up whoever was in front of him, of course. He was the one with the muscles and the big sword who decided where they all went.

What would Hawke do? Merrill asked herself. Well, he would probably savagely maul her to death. But he was possessed. It wasn't really him. Okay, bad example. What would Eingana do? Or Anders? They were fairly competent adventurers.

Regroup, she thought. Strength in numbers. Yes. Or, get back into known territory so she could stop creeping around like a terrified... snail. Merrill decided that finding the others and getting back into familiar territory were her highest priorities and of equal importance. If she could get back up to the estate cellars, she could look through the books in the laboratory for something useful. Or she could go upstairs and summon help.

Right now there was no way to know which corridor led in that direction, though, so she would concentrate on finding her friends. There were ways to do that... this was really Anders's thing, not hers, but...

Merrill bit her lip. She didn't like resorting to blood magic for a number of reasons, principal among them being that it hurt and that it made people think she was evil. Still, she knew a spell that would indicate which direction she should take to find the nearest living person, and right now company sounded really, really good. She reasoned that if she _didn't_ use the spell to find someone, Hawke would eventually find her waffling here and make her hurt a great deal more than if she _had _used the spell. Also, there was nobody around here to see her use blood magic and think she was evil, so it couldn't be held against her.

Merrill sighed silently as she realized she'd talked herself into using blood magic again. Well, nothing for it. Holding her staff in the crook of her arm, Merrill drew her knife and carefully reopened one of the casting wounds on her forearm. She frowned at the pain, but long experience using blood magic had numbed her instinct to make a noise. She replaced her knife in its sheath and dipped her fingers in the pooling blood on her arm, using her magical senses to tap into its bound life force and unbind it to power her spell.

Dim red magic flitted around her fingers as she held them out to each of the three corridors in turn.

_Varric_, she thought. _Anders_. _Eingana_. _Where are you_?

There was nobody for a great distance down the right-hand corridor or straight ahead. There was someone down the left-hand corridor, a fair ways away but within walking distance. She couldn't tell who it was, because all she felt was a heartbeat, but it was someone.

Still being careful not to make a noise, Merrill ran her fingers over her casting wound, discharging some conventional mana to close it. She headed off down the left-hand corridor with a cautious smile on her face. She was doing okay.

Then her steps faltered. What if the heartbeat she'd sensed belonged to Hawke?

Merrill shook her head and kept going. There was only a one in four chance of that. If she did run into Hawke, well... she would just have to do her best. That was a very brave attitude to take, she thought. Maybe she wasn't such a bad adventurer after all.

Then she felt hot breath on her neck and cold metal fingers sliding down her arm. Right next to her ear, Hawke whispered, "_Shhh... don't make a sound_."

Merrill screamed and broke into a frantic run. She heard deep, resonant laughter behind her and choked on a terrified sob. She stumbled and barely kept herself from falling as she fled.

**ασυνέχεια**

As she neared the Hawke mansion Isabela found herself wondering, not for the first time, just _why _she'd returned to Kirkwall with the Tome of Koslun. Of course, the answer was still the same: Hawke himself. It always came back to him. Aveline had once described him as the center of a hurricane. Isabela, who had experience with actual hurricanes, could find little fault with the metaphor. Naturally, the trouble arose from the inherent difficulty in staying close enough to Hawke to remain within his sphere of deadly calm, rather than being torn apart by the chaos and destruction that inevitably swirled around him. Sometimes, Isabela wondered why she didn't just try to get far enough away from him to avoid danger completely. She had ever found reasons to stay... so far.

Isabela kept to the shadows during her sortie from the Hanged Man in the interest of avoiding the minor skirmishes going on between the city guard and the forces of darkness throughout the city. She noted with interest that each squadron of guardsmen had one or more templars with them, annulling demonic magic and using their lyrium-enhanced abilities to tear shades and rage demons apart. Apparently, Captain Man-Hands had managed to get the Templar Order to cooperate with her guards. Isabela was impressed. Aveline _was_ awkward and comically mannish, but Isabela couldn't fault her for her ability to get things done.

She was rather less impressed at the sheer number of demons that were wreaking havoc on the city. Alarmingly, Isabela had counted at least three desire demons in Lowtown alone, and one more in Hightown that had been directing a swarm of shades against the city guards with tactical intelligence at least on par with that of a human or dwarven commander. She didn't know what was going on, but the impromptu demonic invasion of the city was clearly growing more intense, and more powerful demons were beginning to breach the Veil. Isabela hadn't seen a pride demon yet, for which she was glad, but she had an uneasy feeling that it was only a matter of time.

The Hanged Man had still been doing its usual business when she'd left – not even incursions from the spirit world could deter the most determined alcoholics, and in fact seemed to be driving _more_ people to drink. Driven to spirits, _by_ spirits. Isabela laughed softly at her own mental pun. She couldn't blame the poor bastards – she would be after a stiff one too, if she'd seen her friends or loved ones shredded, burned alive, drained of life force, possessed and mutated... if they had no other redeeming features, the demons were certainly creative.

As adept as the pirate was at finding humour in the blackest of situations, Isabela wasn't eager for the city to be overrun by demons. At least, not before she'd found a ship. When things like this happened (which, to her displeasure, had been increasingly often as the years passed), she went looking for Michael Hawke. Stay within the eye of the storm, and all that. Of course, Hawke had his own problems with demons at the moment, but Isabela had an instinct about this kind of thing. Whatever was going on with the demons, Hawke was its fulcrum (again), and if she could make something happen that might preclude further demonic activity, he would know what it was – or at least, the other people he hung around with would. Right now, that meant Anders and Eingana.

Uncharacteristically, but perhaps not unsurprisingly, Hightown Square outside of Hawke's mansion was empty. There _were_, however, rather a lot of burn marks, enough bloodstains to make her wince, and two corpses. Isabela gave them a wide berth, keeping to the sparse shadows at the very edges of the square as she made her way toward the mansion's entrance. This time of day, when the sun was highest in the sky, was usually Hightown's least viable time for moving stealthily around town, but today had followed the gloomy example of the previous morning by being unseasonably chilly and overcast.

The lack of people moving about in the square made it unusually quiet. Isabela was a little unnerved that she couldn't hear much from the rest of the city other than the cries, shouts, and clashes of battle, screams, and the occasional explosion. Surely that was just because of skirmishes going on relatively nearby. The entire city couldn't be choked with demons, not already. Could it?

"Isabela," said a voice as she approached the door to Hawke's mansion, and she jumped.

It was Fenris, leaning against the wall right outside the door with his arms folded. He straightened as she sidled up to the estate. How had she not noticed him? Isabela prided herself on noticing _much_. Then again, Fenris had a rare knack for keeping even her guessing.

"Hey there," she greeted him. "Out for a relaxing day-time stroll, are we? Taking a break from brooding?"

"I'm keeping watch," the taciturn elf informed her.

"For what?"

Fenris arched one eyebrow. "Demons," he said.

Isabela made an "Oh, right" expression, and the corners of Fenris's mouth quirked. Damn, but that elf had pretty eyes, she thought.

"Seen any?" Isabela asked.

"A few."

"Have you-" Isabela's question was interrupted as a tremor rippled through the square with a sinister rumbling like far-off thunder. Fenris was startled and had to clutch some of the extensive greenery festooning the wall of Hawke's mansion to stop himself falling over; Isabela's sea legs emerged spontaneously and kept her smugly stable as she rode out the shuddering of the ground. As soon as the tremor subsided, she spoke again as if nothing had happened, charitably allowing Fenris to recover his dignity without comment. As to what could have caused the tremor, she refused even to contemplate the matter.

"Have you by any chance thought to check for demons _inside_ the mansion, as well?" Isabela asked.

"Not within an hour," Fenris said. "The last time I looked in, Hawke was securely contained. Merrill and Varric stayed the night to help if necessary. The enchanter is due to arrive later today."

Isabela folded her arms and glanced upwards. "And have you been right here, outside the mansion, since then?"

"I took a walk," Fenris said suspiciously. "Why?"

Isabela raised her eyebrow at him, and Fenris turned around to follow her gaze upward. Several of the estate's windows were cracked, and a few were broken.

"Did that happen yesterday, or today?" Isabela asked. "I don't remember noticing it last night..."

"No," Fenris said slowly. "That is new."

"Shall we check in and see how things are going?" Isabela suggested, nodding towards the door. Frowning, Fenris gestured for her to enter first, and she did.

The antechamber was empty. The mansion was silent but for the whispering breeze through the windows, both those open and those broken. There was an unsettling stillness about the place that set Isabela's nerves on edge, entirely apart from the ominously broken windows. From where she stood, Isabela couldn't make out any sign of Hawke or his enchanted cage in the common room.

"Hello?" she called. "Bodahn?"

"Bodahn left with his son some time ago, to shop," Fenris said as he entered behind her.

"During a demonic invasion?" Isabela asked, turning around to eye the elf incredulously, and he shrugged.

"Eingana? Anders?" Isabela tried again, loudly so that her voice might penetrate to the remote depths of the mansion.

Nobody answered.

"I don't like this," the pirate muttered. Fenris's scowl made it apparent that he didn't either. He sniffed the air.

"Do you smell that?" he asked.

Isabela frowned, closed her eyes and inhaled. She detected a hint of a strange odour – it was unfamiliar, but there was something definitely _off_ about it. Like it was tinged with rancid meat.

"What is that?" she asked.

"Saffron," Fenris said darkly.

Isabela didn't get the connection, but the elf ignored her questioning look and moved past her into the common room.

She followed, both of them moving with cautious slowness, looking around for any sign of what might be wrong. Fenris cursed vehemently in Tevinter.

"What?" Isabela asked.

"Hawke is gone," Fenris growled. "He was contained right here, and now he is not. Look."

He pointed, and Isabela followed his gaze to the burst, discarded manacles on the floor and – even more alarming – the warped, blackened halves of the metal collar.

"Balls," she said softly. "That _cannot _be good."

Fenris slipped out of the room to search the rest of the mansion. Isabela checked the writing desk on the off chance that someone might have left a note. No one had. She wandered over to where the magical barrier had confined Hawke, nudging the discarded manacles with her foot. She eyed the stretched and twisted scraps of metal that had been the collar. What kind of force could do that to inscribed silverite? What would such force do to a human body? She shuddered to think of it.

Fenris re-entered the room. Isabela looked at him hopefully, but he only shook his head.

"But..." Isabela was growing more confused and afraid by the minute. "Where is everybody? Eingana, Anders, Merrill, Varric – do you suppose... could he have killed them? _All_ of them?"

Isabela didn't want to seriously consider that possibility. Hawke lost to the thing, whatever it was, was bad enough. His status as eye candy alone was motivation to keep him around, not to mention his tendency towards comedic gold with his irate snarking. And if Isabela was honest with herself she cared about him as a person too, and rather a lot. It was a rare person who could have made her brave the wrath of the Arishok, after all.

But the others – all of them, even Hawke's bizarre choice of manservants who were hopefully unharmed – had won her over at some point, to varying degrees and sometimes (well, just Anders, really) in the face of intense personality clashes. Isabela was dearly hoping that Fenris would deploy his cold, flawless logic to disabuse her of the notion; he disappointed her spectacularly by doing the exact opposite.

"Possible," he said. "Likely, even. Look – burn marks on the carpet..."

Isabela looked. An intricate charred imprint was faintly visible in one spot. The design was familiar, and after a moment's thought Isabela recognized Anders's paralysis glyph.

"And blood, over here," Fenris said from near the door to the cellar. "A few spots of it... not as if from a grievous wound, but perhaps-"

"Blood magic," Isabela finished for him, and he nodded grimly.

"Merrill," Isabela said with an ache in her heart. "Oh, Kitten..."

"We do not know they are dead," Fenris reminded her. "There are no bodies here."

"I hope you're not suggesting he _ate_ them or something," Isabela said, barely preventing her voice from becoming shrill.

"Hardly. But he may have forced them to flee into the cellars... or chased them down there," Fenris said dourly. He gestured towards the cellar door, slightly ajar.

Isabela had been down there a few times, and she didn't like it. It was like Darktown – it _was _Darktown, in a few places – except darker, dustier, and with less people to prevent a person from getting hopelessly lost.

Isabela sighed theatrically. "Well, I suppose we should – FENRIS!"

Fenris whirled at the same time Isabela shouted her warning, unsheathing his greatsword from his back just in time to prevent gnarled, clawed hands from descending across his face. The cellar door was shoved open the rest of the way and a blackened, decomposed corpse staggered up the last step, swinging at Fenris a second time.

The elf backed up a step and then lashed out calmly with his blade, bisecting the rotted carcass with one swing. It fell in pieces to the floor, the upper half continuing to claw ineffectually at Fenris's feet.

"Undead," he spat. He stomped on the corpse's head until its futile thrashing subsided into twitches.

"Bloody Void," Isabela muttered, drawing her daggers. "Where do these things keep _coming_ from?"

"The Veil is particularly weak down there," Fenris said. "They may even have been summoned by the demon influencing Hawke, to prevent us from coming after it."

He backed up further as a chorus of growling, grunting, and ragged half-breathing arose from the darkness of the cellar. More undead hands became visible, dragging and clawing themselves into the light of the common room. The stench of their decaying flesh wafted powerfully from the cellar, and Isabela made a disgusted noise.

"If one of them gets close enough to you, can you do the magical fisting thing? Just for me?" she asked Fenris hopefully without taking her eyes off the undead.

"Perhaps pay more attention to the undead attacking us than my magical fisting thing, pirate," Fenris said, but Isabela could tell he was amused.

The first corpse staggered to its feet, lugging a rusted, filthy longsword in one hand. It made for Isabela, slowly raising the sword to strike. Isabela darted forward and spun her leg in a powerful kick that connected with the corpse's head, sending it flailing backwards and knocking over several of its ghastly brethren emerging from the cellar.

Fenris took advantage of their incapacitation, lunging towards the confused undead and stabbing them through the face with his blade, one after another. Those he had "killed" immediately ceased their writhing attempts to free themselves from the snarl of rotting limbs. Vaporous demonic energy dissipated from the macabre shells with otherworldly groans and hisses of rage. The groans and howls from below did not abate.

"More coming?" Isabela guessed, annoyed. She'd tried so hard to avoid demons throughout the city, and when she finally got where she was going, not only did the dead rise, but they did so in number.

"I can't imagine there are a great many corpses in Hawke's cellar," Fenris observed. "They must have been buried in the walls or sealed crypts."

"Corpses buried in the walls, coming to life to eat our flesh," Isabela muttered. "There's a charming thought. Sometimes I hate Kirkwall. I can't believe I didn't bring any fire bombs."

"You came all the way here from Lowtown, during a demonic invasion of unprecedented scale, and you didn't bring any fire bombs?" Fenris said with scathing incredulity. "I'm surprised at you, Isabela."

"I was trying to be stealthy, okay?" she retorted as they waited for the next wave of zombies to climb over their dead-again comrades where they could be killed in the open common room. "Throwing grenades into a horde of demons isn't the best way to remain unobtrusive."

A thought struck her. "But... hang on." She went over to the wall below the mezzanine, where a number of chests sat between the writing desk and the hearth. Fenris glanced at her curiously, making sure to keep an eye on the undead, as she opened one of the chests and pawed through it.

"Hawke lets me keep some stuff here, for when I come around looking for adventure and he indulges me," Isabela explained as she shifted a number of sealed jars of her favourite plant toxins. "Aha! Thank you, Hawke," she murmured as she found what she was looking for: a trio of shiny, round, deceptively small glass bottles. The liquid inside was translucent and had an oily sheen.

"Sooner rather than later would be appreciated," Fenris said, voice rising slightly. His lyrium tattoos began to glow softly in his agitation as he watched several mouldering, dirt-encrusted corpses stumble out of the cellar and promptly trip over the pile of defeated undead.

"Here we go," Isabela said, returning to his side. She selected one of the bottles she'd recovered and clipped the other two by their conveniently hooked necks to her belt. "Might want to back up a bit, pet."

Fenris did as she suggested. When they were some distance away, Isabela took careful aim.

"Sorry about your wallpaper, Hawke," Isabela muttered apologetically to the absent warrior who owned the mansion. She lobbed the bottle underhand towards the cellar door. The five or six corpses that had assembled and found their unsteady footing were abruptly awash in flame, and their quiet groans rose into an unholy chorus of wails and shrieks as they burned. Isabela winced, while Fenris watched with a grim smirk, as one by one the undead collapsed into foul, disintegrating heaps of charred, reeking matter. Fenris easily cut down the few that made it far enough to threaten him or Isabela. The flames belched greasy smoke that carried a truly horrifying stench, occasionally flickering exotic colours as wisps of the dying spirits fled their ruined hosts. Isabela looked around, not wanting to leave Hawke's mansion stinking of burning undead, but all the windows in the room were already open or broken.

A sudden commotion in the antechamber made them both spin, weapons raised, but it was just Bodahn and Sandal returning from the market. Isabela lowered her daggers with a relieved smile, glad to see them unhurt.

"Goodness me," Bodahn was saying around a bulging paper sack of groceries. "The city is in absolute-" He stopped suddenly as he noticed the stench of corpses and burning flesh. He looked up and saw Isabela and Fenris through the doorway.

"Mistress Isabela?" Bodahn said. Next to him, Sandal wrinkled his nose at the smell.

"Hi, guys," Isabela said. "Glad you're okay. Wow, are the merchants still selling, with the demons and everything?"

"I tell you, it was a chore to find one open for business," Bodahn admitted as he removed his traveling boots. "But there are certain essentials we could no longer do without, demons or no demons... we ourselves ran afoul of a shade on the way back, but it was no match for my boy's enchantments."

He smiled fondly at Sandal, who clapped his hands and said "Enchantment!" with his usual uncomplicated enthusiasm.

Bodahn entered the common room and his face grew pale. "Where is... blessed ancestors! What happened here?" he asked, staring aghast at the pile of burning zombies.

"We've had a setback," Fenris informed him, and Isabela rolled her eyes. She went to help the unsettled dwarf with the paper sack, carrying it to the writing desk. Sandal looked at the carnage with wide eyes.

"Is everyone alright?" Bodahn asked with concern. "Where is Master Hawke?"

"He appears to have broken his confinement," Fenris said, gesturing to the distorted remains of the metal collar.

Bodahn's face, already pale, became positively ashen. "Oh, dear Paragons," he whispered, settling into the chair at the writing desk when Isabela led him to it. "Is he... the others? Do you know what's happened, messeres?"

"We just got here," Isabela explained. "Given that we were attacked by undead, however... it's not looking good." She eyed the cellar door. The awful aroma of burning zombies made it impossible to tell by their stench alone if more undead were approaching, but there was at least no more of their telltale groaning and hissing.

Bodahn placed his hand over his chest, and Isabela was struck by how very old he seemed. How long did dwarves live? She wondered. Bodahn wasn't exactly ancient, but he wasn't young, either.

"Should we not... call for help?" Bodahn asked anxiously. "From the Lady Aveline, perhaps? I know Master Anders does not wish to involve the templars just yet, but..."

"I imagine Aveline's got her hands full at the moment," Isabela said.

"If no more undead emerge from the cellars," Fenris said, "I intend to go down to investigate. There is some evidence of a struggle in this room, and the rest of the mansion is empty. If Hawke or any of the others are still here, that is where they will be."

"Good idea," Isabela said. She sighed reluctantly. "I guess... I'll go with you. I don't much like those bloody dark tunnels, but we have to do _something_."

Fenris nodded his thanks.

"I... I will remain here, then, in case any of them make their way back from... wherever they are," Bodahn said. "And someone must be here to receive Enchanter Wynne when she arrives."

Fenris shook his head. "I do not think that is wise," he said. "It is much more likely that Hawke will return here before any of the others do. You see what he did to the enchanted collar – Sandal's enchantments cannot protect you long against that kind of magical fury."

And if _we_ meet him, Isabela wondered silently, what will protect _us_ from that kind of magical fury?

"I suppose you are right, messere," Bodahn said with a sigh. "But where will we go?"

"I heard some guards talking on my way here," Isabela offered. "They were telling people to go to the Viscount's Keep. The guards are protecting civilians there whose homes have been invaded or damaged by the demons."

"Wise," said Fenris. "The Keep is only a short distance away. I suggest you and Sandal make your way there as soon as you can – but try to avoid demons."

Bodahn nodded. "Then that is what we will do. Thank you for everything you've done and are planning to do, messere." He nodded to Isabela. "And you as well, Mistress."

Isabela smiled resignedly.

"If you see her, tell Aveline what has happened here," Fenris said. "But alert no one else just yet."

"Very well." Bodahn stood. "Though – I really should leave a message for Enchanter Wynne. If she is to be of any help, she must know what is going on. And please, allow me to find some lanterns before you enter the cellars – the corridors are extensive, after all, and few of them are properly lit."

"That would be helpful," Fenris said.

"I'll do the note," Isabela said. "You go find some lanterns."

Bodahn bustled off to see to his task. Fenris set about using his feet to shove the charred, fragmented corpses away from the cellar door so it would be easier to enter the steep, narrow staircase. Isabela sat down at the writing desk to pen a brief note to the enchanter, using circumlocutious language to avoid explicitly describing the situation, just in case.

Presently Bodahn returned with a light traveling bag, containing some things for himself and Sandal, as well as two fully-fueled lanterns and a tinderbox with which to light them. Fenris accepted a lantern and the tinderbox with a word of thanks.

"Oh," Bodahn said suddenly as he was handing the other lantern to Isabela. "Before I leave, I should also just quickly put the groceries away."

Isabela raised her eyebrows. "Priorities, Bodahn," she said with amusement in her voice.

"Yes, yes, I realize, but it won't take long," Bodahn said, grabbing the paper sack and waving for Sandal to follow him. "Demon or no demon, Master Hawke has never appreciated an untidy household... drilled into him by the Lady Amell, I suspect, Stone preserve her."

Isabela shook her head as Bodahn and Sandal left the room. She accepted a burning splint from Fenris and lit her lantern. She eyed the darkness beyond the doorway to the cellar apprehensively. Isabela had no desire whatsoever to go down there, but letting Fenris go exploring a zombie-infested and possibly demon-containing labyrinth of corridors by himself struck her as a bad idea.

Still... "You go first," Isabela said to Fenris, and he obliged her without comment. She took a deep breath, steeled her nerves, and followed the elf into the darkness.

**ασυνέχεια**

Varric was on the verge of feeling real, paralyzing fear. He'd been lost immediately as soon as demonic-Hawke had dumped him here; he knew he was in the cellars of the estate, but the corridors were endless and identical. As it was, he was lucky to have found a lantern that still had some fuel in it. He picked a direction and walked, rapidly becoming frustrated and bored. Not to mention the simmering fear that wouldn't go away. What had he ever done to this damn demon? Or whatever it was? What did it plan to do to _him_?

Varric rather thought he'd been unusually tolerant when Hawke's behaviour had first changed. If Anders got off on Hawke beating and cutting him while they had sex, well, that was their own business. Far be it from Varric to stop men who loved each other from having fun in whatever way flipped their respective switches. Really, more unusual or exotic sexual activities made for much more interesting stories. It was win-win.

Of course, Hawke had become progressively more dangerous, to the point of losing complete control of himself, performing magic even trained mages believed was impossible, hunting his former friends through dank mazes of cellars and indirectly causing the entire city to be attacked by demons. When would it end? What was taking the damn enchanter so long?

Varric was frustrated. And now there were walking corpses.

The stench was unbelievable. At least he could tune out their unsettling hissing by humming Bianca's calming song as he fired bolts into their rotting eye sockets. Where had they all _come_ from? The _walls_? Hadn't Hawke checked before he bought the place to see whether the honeycomb of cellars and tunnels beneath it was filled with unmarked graves? No, that wasn't the kind of thing that Hawke would do, or even be bothered by. Hawke had no business sense and no human capacity for fear.

At first, Varric was able to retrieve salvageable bolts from the corpses he "killed." Humming Bianca's song had always helped him focus, and he tended to shoot better under duress; the trait had undoubtedly saved his life many times. Not a single bolt was wasted – every shot found its mark in a shambling corpse's eye, destroying the animating spirit's ability to control its host. The ones that could be used again would be – Varric had no idea how long it would take him to find his way out of this accursed sewer, or how much more shooting he would have to do.

Then he started running into undead so old and decayed that they were mere skeletons, bones yellowed with age and crusted with fungus and mildew. Some were even aglow with sinister flickers of power, reflections of the spirits that animated them. These creatures were much harder to disable, for they no longer had conveniently targetable organic brains. Varric had fought skeletons before, but always with help – Hawke with his greatsword and crazed urge to utterly destroy things with it, Anders with his dazzling bolts of lightning and balls of fire, Aveline with her shield that she seemed to use as a weapon more often than to defend herself with.

On his own, Varric had precious few options for dealing with fleshless skeletons – his explosive bolts were effective, but he had so few of them that he couldn't waste one on a single undead. He had a few tar bombs which remained miraculously unbroken after his forced magical deposition in the tunnels, which he was saving for emergencies. And... that was it, really. He had his wits, which were already nearly stretched to their breaking point. His solution was to pin skeletons to the walls by their gaping skulls or ribcages, but that meant he couldn't retrieve the bolt afterwards, and he was running dangerously low.

It was then that the fear began to make him irrational. He wasn't deeply concerned about death, but dying was a different story. Varric had no desire to be eaten or otherwise bodily damaged to the point of expiration by walking corpses and skeletons, trapped and alone in a cramped, dusty tunnel beneath Kirkwall. Especially not at the whim of some Maker-cursed demonic _thing_ that had taken over the body of Michael Hawke, one Varric's best friends, and twisted him into a horrible sadistic bastard. More of a sadistic bastard. It was... well, it was ignoble for starters.

Varric launched one of his last explosive bolts into the crowd of undead he'd accumulated over the last several hundred paces of running. It knocked them all down to perish in flames, but if the cacophony of hissing and moaning was any indication of their remaining numbers, there would be more, and soon. The more he killed or disabled, the faster they regrouped, and in progressively greater numbers. Varric was trying hard not to panic and barely succeeding.

Then he ran into a wall and realized he was at a dead end, and not panicking became impractical.

There was a room next to him at the end of the corridor with a few unidentifiable bits of wreckage in it. Varric entered swiftly and looked around by the pitiful light of the lantern he'd found, dangling by its hook from one of his fingers. There was no other exit. It was a true dead end. This was it.

Varric swore loudly and more colourfully than he ever had in his life. His mother would have been shocked and horrified to hear him speak such things, not to mention ashamed.

_I will not die a gibbering lunatic, crazed with fear_, Varric vowed. _Or I'll try not to, anyway. I will die with dignity. The final story I tell will be my own, and it will be glorious_.

Of course, if he survived, that would be even better, but Varric wasn't yet so irrational with terror that he thought the chances of that happening were higher than slim.

Before the inevitably approaching undead could make their way to the doorway of the room that would become his grave (_don't think that, don't think that_), Varric shoved some of the scraps of wood and decayed remnants of sofa cushions into a barricade. It was the most pathetic barricade he'd ever seen in his life, but it would have to do. He shored it up as best he could with the scraps of debris strewn about the room and tried to come up with a strategy. How best to use his remaining explosive bolts? His tar bombs? Should he reserve one final bolt for himself, to use when his defenses eventually failed, and thereby spare himself a horrible, painful death?

Varric gripped Bianca's stock tightly. He set his lantern down before the barricade to light his shots. He could shoot it when the end was near, use the last of its oil to take as many of the rotting bastards down with him as he could. He ran an affectionate hand along his crossbow's firing mechanism, wondering if he should say something to the beautifully built device that he loved so much and that had saved his life so many times but was, when one got right down to it, still an inanimate object. Varric wondered if saying a tearful, grateful goodbye to his weapon would be excessively maudlin. Strangely, the thought of Bianca lying abandoned atop his broken body and buried beneath a horde of undead was almost more painful to Varric than the thought of his own imminent death. Perhaps his crossbow would be discovered decades or centuries later by a wandering adventurer exploring the cellars, and if she didn't sing in the hands of any of that adventurer's adventuring friends like she did in Varric's, she would no doubt be callously sold to the nearest merchant.

Varric shook his head and dislodged a reluctant, painful tear from his eye. Waiting for the undead to reach his position was driving him crazy in stages. Now he was getting upset about a situation that hadn't actually happened. Of course, he was a storyteller, so that tended to happen sometimes, but this was hypothetical, not intended even to be fiction. He had to stop being so irrational. Bianca was a prize, to be sure. No way would a future-adventurer be so foolish as to sell her. Andraste's tits, she had spaced lyrium etchings for _three _runes, Varric reminded himself. That brought him some comfort.

The shuffling, clacking, groaning undead were almost upon him. He could hear them out in the corridor, very near the doorway, awash in the shadows his valiant lantern could barely push back more than a meter. It was almost time. _Be calm, Varric. This is it, but you did okay. You had a good life. You contributed to the shaping of history, you had some good laughs, you met the Champion of Kirkwall and the Hero of Ferelden... you saw lots of awful, horrifying shit too, but let's just not think about that for now... _Bianca.

"This is it, Bianca," Varric muttered, not even sure if he was speaking to his crossbow or that far off memory of a girl, a musical laugh, a whisper of promise in the dark. "It's been good. I'll miss you."

The first corpse appeared in the flickering light past his barricade, and Varric raised his crossbow to take aim. He had an explosive bolt loaded. Wait for more, he thought. A few more...

More appeared.

Varric's trigger finger twitched.

A few more corpses shoved into view, the first still pushing itself against the barricade with what would have been comedic incompetence if the sheer inevitability of its success wasn't so terrifyingly obvious.

_I really should fire_, Varric thought. _But I should also make the best use of what I have... just one more_.

A skeleton stumbled against the corpses crowding around the barrier, somehow slipping between them and flipping head first over the barrier. The sight was so ridiculous that Varric couldn't help laughing.

And as if his sudden mirth had summoned the wrath of the Maker, brilliant azure flames washed down the corridor in a tide of spectacular magic, consuming the corpses and skeletons in a grand, symphonic _whooooooosh_. The undead had barely enough time to alter the pitch of their hissing from generally bloodthirsty to angry-and-confused bloodthirsty before they burst into powder and fragments from the intense heat.

Varric laughed some more, possibly with a bit of hysteria this time, momentarily convinced his ordeal had driven him utterly crazy and that he was hallucinating some impossibly unlikely rescue scenario. But the heat on his face and hands felt very real. The sight was as vivid as the reality he knew, not fevered or dreamlike or bright and unreal. He felt completely lucid. And the blue of that fire was so _familiar_...

"Blondie?" Varric said softly.

Another rolling wall of blue fire cleansed the last of the undead from the corridor. Varric's pitiful barricade burst into flame, reduced to ash and char in a matter of moments. The flame of his lantern fluttered in the intense drafts of moving air created by the magical spectacle; after a moment, it went out.

Instead of plunging the room into darkness, the extinguishing of the lantern allowed Varric's dark-adjusted eyes to notice another light source in the corridor. Its origin became clear a moment later as Anders stepped into view, the crystal atop his staff flaring with brilliant blue-white light.

"Blondie!" Varric shouted joyfully, tears streaming unabashedly down his face. "Maker's breath, your timing is... is... Holy shit, thank you so much! You have no idea how happy I am to see you!"

"Varric," Anders said. His voice was deep, resonant, and distinctly inhuman, and Varric was startled to feel the thrum of a spirit's power in his chest. It was only then that he noticed the fractal patterns of cracks traced across the mage's skin, shining with the blue light of the Fade. His eyes glowed like the sun. With the crystalline apex of his staff poised at eye level, the area of the mage's face was difficult to look at directly.

Varric felt some of his euphoria deflate. This was not Anders. This was Justice.

"Come," said the spirit-possessed mage, apparently upon determination that Varric was not injured, and he turned and strode away.

Varric followed immediately, not wanting to be left in the dark or without the protection of the powerful spirit's magic. Anders hadn't gotten glowy and wrathy for a long time – not once that Varric knew about since that day in the smuggler tunnels beneath Darktown, when he, Anders, and Hawke had fought Ser Alrik and his men. Afterwards, when Anders wasn't following Hawke around acting like a dog that had been beaten too often, his mood had actually seemed to improve. Varric could hardly be anything but glad that the mage had apparently repressed his spirit companion after it had escaped his control and killed the mage.

Justice's unexpected presence wasn't exactly unwelcome given their circumstances, Varric considered as he hurried to keep up with the spirit's purposeful strides. His light shining from within Anders's body was as strong and steady as it had ever been, and Varric had little doubt that the spirit's magic would of considerable help against the entity that had Hawke in its grip, as well as any intervening undead.

The reason for the spirit's abrupt reemergence wasn't hard to deduce, either. Varric had made it his business not to judge other people for _their_ business, but he had wondered how long it would take for Hawke, or the demon who ruled him, to push Anders too far. Throwing them all about with magic and banishing them into the darkness to be hunted as playthings while the city suffered under demonic assault above them appeared to have done it. It certainly fit Varric's definition of injustice.

He couldn't help a twinge of worry for Anders himself, however. The mage had expressed his concern on more than once occasion over Justice's apparent lack of compunction against taking control of their shared body whenever he felt like it. Though he ostensibly fought to correct injustice, Varric had witnessed the spirit kill a helpless mage in cold blood that they had just risked their lives to _save_. Wasn't this the very kind of thing that Hawke was also suffering from? Was Justice even capable of recognizing the symmetry his and Anders's situation shared with Hawke's?

It was a matter for another day. Varric didn't delude himself that he could convince Justice to relinquish control of the mage on his own or that he wasn't glad for the power the spirit could bring to bear. He would, however, be sure to tread carefully around the possessed mage, having witnessed firsthand just how quickly Justice could become Vengeance.

"So uh, Justice," Varric said, panting a bit with the effort of keeping up with the mage's strides. He folded up Bianca and holstered her on his back, confident that the spirit could protect him from anything that might attack them long enough to deploy her again. "Long time no see."

"Varric," Justice replied, and the dwarf was relieved to hear some of Anders behind the spirit's deep, unfamiliar voice. "I am pleased you are unharmed, but there is little time to waste."

They were now approaching some of the skeletons Varric had pinned to the wall with bolts from Bianca. Justice barely slowed enough to wash them away with rolling waves of blue fire from his staff. Had the spirit left them intact just to get to Varric in time? That was touching. It would have been more so if Justice had expressed more than momentary concern for his well-being, though.

"I meant to say thank you for saving my life," Varric said. "Little time for what? Do you have a plan?"

"To deal with Hawke? Yes."

Varric felt a prickle of unease at the way Justice said _deal with_. "I hope you're not planning to kill him," he said cautiously. He yanked salvageable bolts from the wall as he passed them, wiping away charred skeleton residue. "You must be aware of how horrified and traumatized Anders was after you killed the mage. The mage who, I feel compelled to point out, was not possessed and was in fact fleeing from templars who intended to do nasty, awful things to her for no valid reason."

Justice said nothing. Varric wondered if the spirit was capable of feeling shame, or regret.

"I know that justice is what defines your existence, but if you allow yourself to be warped by rage, the result is the exact opposite of justice. I've _seen_ it," Varric pressed.

"Michael Hawke is a danger to this entire city," Justice intoned, still not looking at Varric as he plowed ahead. "He has savagely beaten Anders simply for being what he is. He has driven _you_, me, and others down into this cellar to die at the hands of possessed corpses. He condones and perpetuates the crimes of the Templar Order against mages."

The spirit said nothing for a moment, and then continued in a softer voice that held no trace whatsoever of the mage who was his host, "Anders has suffered at his hands perhaps more than any living being. He will understand what must be done."

Okay. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

"No, Anders will _not_ understand," Varric said as firmly as he could while still being reasonable, keeping in mind that the spirit could and would blast him into ashes if he stood in the way of its warped definition of _justice_. "Anders will be... destroyed. If you kill Hawke with Anders's body, you will break him. He'll kill himself. Hawke is his entire reason for being. Trust me, spirit. I know how mortal creatures think, and I know Blondie."

Justice was silent. The mage's face was creased in thought. Varric waited, hardly daring to hope that he was getting through the strange entity.

"Hawke's crimes cannot go unpunished," Justice said eventually.

"Justice," Varric said placatingly. "_Think_. Hawke isn't the one committing the crimes. You never had a problem with the way he treated Blondie before and more importantly, neither did Blondie. The thing that beat him and mauled him and sent us all down here to be hunted by zombies is _not_ Michael Hawke. It's a... a different thing, something that has control of him the way you have control of Anders right now, except Hawke didn't agree to it. It fact, it's made him rather upset." There was a colossal understatement if Varric had ever made one, he thought wryly. "Eingana explained what it was to me but I didn't really get it. It's like a demon, stronger, but not as..."

Varric rubbed his forehead. "Maker's breath, you know what I mean, don't you? You have Anders's memories and you're a spirit _yourself, _you must have some idea as to the nature of that thing. You know that Hawke has no control over what he's doing."

Justice strode indifferently over several of the singed and inanimate corpses that Varric had dispatched earlier. Varric paused momentarily to retrieve a few bolts and then ran to catch up.

"It's true," Justice said quietly, "that Hawke is as much a victim of the wyrd as Anders is."

"Very true," Varric agreed enthusiastically, cleaning nasty bits of decayed eye and brain matter from the bolts he'd retrieved before returning them to his quiver. "So doesn't he deserve as much justice as Anders does? And here's another thing – think of all the injustice Hawke has fought and destroyed since he came to Kirkwall. I know you don't like how he treats the mages, but there is the rather glaring incident of him killing the Arishok and ending the war with the qunari. Hawke may be a snarky, brutal asshole and a sadistic bastard sometimes, but he's saved far more lives than he's ended." Varric paused. "Well – that might not be true exactly. But he's saved a _lot_ of lives, and a lot of the lives he's ended were bad people. Bandits, murderers, kidnappers, rapists, thugs... unjust people."

The dwarf could only hope that his attempt to manipulate the spirit by saying _justice_ and _unjust _in these contexts wasn't absolutely transparent. It wasn't like he was lying, after all.

"I suppose you are correct," Justice said, and Varric couldn't help a sigh of relief. "I feel Anders's thoughts as my own, and I believe what you say is true. But I will tell you right now, Varric, I do not know if it will be possible to save Hawke from the wyrd without killing him no matter how much we may want to. The wyrd must be killed or banished – there can be no compromises there."

"No, there can't. But surely you can save Hawke _somehow. _Isn't he worth trying? For everything he's done and for what he means to Blondie?"

"When will the enchanter arrive?" Justice asked, surprising Varric with the sudden change of subject.

"Uh – well, today, I thought. She's supposed to show up by this evening, or tomorrow morning at the latest. Blondie and the Warden-Commander seemed pretty convinced that the enchanter would know how to save Hawke and still get rid of the thing."

Justice turned a corner at a T-intersection and Varric followed. Should have turned this way when I came by earlier, the dwarf thought ruefully.

"Then I may know a way to keep Hawke and his unwelcome guest contained until she arrives," Justice said. "For the reasons you have outlined, I will allow her a chance to enact whatever plan she may come up with to defeat the wyrd without killing Hawke. If she cannot..." he trailed off threateningly.

"Yeah, yeah, you'll have to go wrathy on him, I get that," Varric said hastily. "So what's your idea?"

"The last time Anders disabled Hawke, he did so by tapping into ancient reservoirs of mana held by the city itself," Justice told him. "I intend to do something similar. My plan was to kill him, but the discharges can be manipulated to instead simply hold him in stasis."

"That was an accident," Varric pointed out. "Anders didn't even know that was going to happen."

"Nevertheless, it did, and it worked. I see the flows and channels of energy that Anders could not – I know where to push and where to pull, so to speak, so that Hawke will be contained – and _without_ releasing a catastrophic shockwave of magical force." The spirit smiled wryly with Anders's lips, and Varric was startled by the combined familiarity and unfamiliarity of the expression. He'd seen Anders smile, but Justice?

"Justice," Varric said in a tone of mixed disbelief and amusement, "did you just make a sardonic aside? Do you, in fact, have an actual _sense of humour_? What sorcery is this? Will wonders never cease!"

"Be silent, dwarf. We will need to draw Hawke to a certain spot in order for the discharge to affect him the way it must. I will need your help for that."

"Oh," Varric said with dry, false enthusiasm, all traces of humour gone from his face. "Sounds like fun."

"I will also need Merrill," Justice said. "If we are to disable Hawke and not kill him, then a mage with some command of blood magic will be needed."

Varric stared at him in open-mouthed surprise.

"And the Warden-Commander's help and experience would be preferable, as well," Justice added. "She is known to me. Her skills would improve our odds of success substantially, and I do not wish to see her perish in these tunnels."

"Alright then," Varric said, recovering himself. "Find Merrill and Eingana first. No arguments here. But, uh... why do we need blood magic? And why don't you sound even a little bit annoyed about that?"

"The Dalish mage is dangerously naïve in her reckless use of blood magic," Justice spat.

"Now _that_ sounds more like the Justice I know," Varric commented. Justice ignored him.

"However, her spells were considerably more effective against Hawke than conventional mana was, as you'll recall," the spirit continued. "That will no doubt be useful in luring Hawke into the correct position. As well, the initial magical surge of the effect I intend to create will kill him unless there is a buffer of sorts to absorb some of it. A shield of conventional mana will not work – the surge will dissolve it and Hawke will perish. Blood magic, however, will. Instead of reducing him to ash, the magic will catch Hawke in its stream and keep him trapped within, unable to interact with the outside world, until we see fit to release him."

"Are you _sure_ about this?" Varric said severely. "Reducing Hawke to ash doesn't sound like a risk Anders would approve of taking."

"He does not," Justice confirmed. "However, Anders acknowledges that the risk is minimal and that it must be taken if Hawke's rampage is to be stopped, as it must be. I said I would allow the enchanter her opportunity to save him, and I will. Hawke will not die today."

"Good," Varric muttered. "Let's hope none of us will, either."

**Ω**


	19. Predator

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Predator"**

Folded uncomfortably into an alcove somewhere in Darktown, Merrill held herself absolutely still. She made not a sound. Though her heart was racing painfully in her chest, she barely breathed. Her ears strained to listen – were those soft falls of noise Hawke's footsteps? That breath of air – there was no ventilation down here, it must be him. He was close. It was only through a supreme effort of will that Merrill kept herself from whimpering in terror.

In her life, the elven mage had said more prayers of thanks to Andruil than she could remember for the carcasses of deer and other beasts of the forests brought back to camp by the hunters of her clan. Until right now, however, Merrill had never thought to feel sorry for the hunters' victims. Now she couldn't help but wonder if their lives ended in this same crippling, abject terror. Were they alert for the slightest scent on the shifting breeze, the telltale careless snap of a twig or crunch of a leaf? Did they realize when they saw elven hunters in the woods that the warriors were as likely to end their lives as spare them? Did they feel fear?

Merrill almost wished she were a deer. A Dalish hunter never took wanton pleasure in killing. They might revel in the thrill of the hunt, exhilarated by an unexpected chase or particularly elusive prey, but they were never cruel. The lives of the creatures they killed were taken quickly, relatively painlessly, and only so that the Dalish might live on.

Hawke, in stark contrast, was playing with her. He was laughing at her, chasing her and brushing his clawed gauntlets along her neck or against cheek to hear her shrill cries of terror and hanging back as she fled, allowing her another chance at escape. When she turned and fought, he snarled; he became vicious and deadly and drove her to run again. But when she ran, he chased her, wore her down. What was he _waiting _for? she asked herself. Nothing. He was having fun. He was indulging his desire to experience the pleasure of inflicting pain and fear on another living being.

And, perhaps worst of all, the demon itself – or whatever the nature of the thing that possessed him – seemed barely interested in the hunt. Hawke's eyes were black with hunger, pupils dilated, but there was no waver of red energy. He hadn't used any magic except to deflect her own. His voice held only a trace of otherworldly tremor. Merrill knew Michael Hawke, and she recognized him. The few times she attempted to communicate with him, her obvious confusion and hurt at Hawke's seeming betrayal only amused the warrior. Merrill could only conclude that harbouring the malevolent spirit in his body for so long had broken Hawke, accentuated his bloodlust and cruelty and diminished the buried traces of mercy and reason she knew he had once possessed.

The thought had filled Merrill with a hot, unexpected anger, and for the first time she had thought she might understand some of Anders's heated objections to her use of blood magic. It was Quentin, she thought bitterly, who had really done this to Michael Hawke. His gruesome murder of Leandra and the obscene magic he'd used against her son had led to this – Merrill, now, exhausted and traumatized, hunted in the dank cellars beneath Kirkwall. She wondered if Hawke would ever be the same again, even if they managed to free him from the thing.

These thoughts and other rational notions fled Merrill's mind as she sensed Hawke drawing ever closer. Her thoughts were in disarray, scrambled by fear. Her nerves were stretched to breaking point. She was light-headed from blood loss, both from gashes inflicted on her by Hawke and from her own casting wounds. Her depleted mana was thready and weak. If he noticed her, she was dead. She had precious little strength left to fight _or_ to run. She had one weapon left: reason, and the thought of placing her hope of surviving this encounter in convincing Hawke to let her live was almost enough to make Merrill weep with despair.

Hawke would pass her hiding place in less than ten seconds. Merrill could smell him. He stank of blood, sweat, and something else – a sour, unpleasant smell, like a herb left for days to rot in dampness and the summer sun.

He was near. Merrill tensed, wondering if these were the last moments of her life. There was so much left unfinished...

Slow, confident steps didn't even hesitate as Hawke walked right past her. Merrill felt the brush of air of his passing.

Bewilderment warred with overwhelming relief in her mind. How could he have just... walked right by? As if she wasn't there? Was it possible that he hadn't noticed her? Every other time she'd tried to hide, he had always found her...

It hardly mattered. _Keep walking_, Merrill urged him silently as he continued down the corridor. _Keep walking, that way... don't turn back_.

Then, as if he'd heard her thinking, Hawke paused, transforming Merrill's relief back to terror in an instant.

She didn't move, breathe, or think. Merrill focused on trying to become part of the wall. She wasn't here. Her mind was empty and her body was wooden.

She heard no more footsteps. What was Hawke doing? Just... standing there? What was he waiting for?

"And here she is," Hawke said softly, right next to her ear, and Merrill gasped with shock and terror. Metal claws traced along the underside of her chin. "My lovely Dalish lady, the blood mage. So powerful, and yet... so timid."

Hawke was right in front of her, having moved back the dozen or so paces he'd gone past her without so much as a shift of air or a whisper of noise. It was so dark that Merrill couldn't see anything but blackness, but she could feel his presence looming over her. The smell was almost overpowering – Hawke usually smelled like blood, but the addition of the rancid spiciness reminded Merrill strongly of the stomach-turning odour that arose when animals were skinned and gutted. She had to fight not to gag as his gauntleted hand gripped her chin and turned her head.

Merrill trembled as she felt the bristles of Hawke's beard against her cheek. She heard him inhale deeply and make a pleased rumble deep in his throat.

"You are so afraid," Hawke murmured. "How exciting."

Then Merrill felt a warm, wet tongue sliding along her neck, and something in her snapped. She shoved Hawke away from her as hard as she could, strengthening her blow with a surge of magic.

"Enough!" Merrill said loudly, but even she heard the tremor in her voice. Hawke chuckled, low and husky.

There was little use in trying to remain hidden at this point. Merrill released another twinge of magic into her staff, igniting a curve of light around the wooden protrusions at its apex. Hawke was illuminated before her, smirking, eyes black and evil. He was still dressed only in worn trousers and his metal gauntlets. He had his greatsword over one shoulder, the wickedly sharp blade resting unguarded against his bare skin. He seemed unconcerned about the possibility of cutting himself with it.

"Now this time, I think I will allow you to fight for a while," Hawke said to her in a low, seductive voice. "It will be so much for fun for both of us if you struggle a bit. Get your blood pumping, nice and hot. No blood magic, though – if I see you trying to cut yourself, I'll do it for you." One eyebrow arched. "Everywhere."

Merrill stared at him with wide eyes. She was backed into her alcove, and Hawke was right in front of her. There was no way she could slip around him. She was well and truly trapped, and she was weary to the point of physical illness. Her options were fairly limited at this point. What would Eingana do? Merrill thought desperately. Talk. She would try to talk to him.

"Hawke," Merrill said in as steady a voice as she could muster, "I know this isn't really what you want."

Hawke laughed at that. "You _know_ this, do you?" He reached out to trace an icy claw along her chin. "Have you been paying attention at all, my little kitten?"

"The real Michael Hawke would never behave like this," Merrill asserted, pushing his hand away. "At least, not to someone he called friend, who he's helped and who has helped him in turn. You're... you're mean, Hawke, and kind of... well, really _scary_ when you're angry and fighting people, but you're also a good man. You have a good heart. I've seen it."

"You haven't seen my heart," Hawke said derisively. "There's an idea, though. Perhaps I will show you _your_ heart. Fenris would find this deeply exciting, I imagine. I might even do it in front of him. Hmm..."

Merrill backed away instinctively, but she was already pressed to the back of the alcove and she couldn't get much further without flattening herself against the wall. Unconsciously, her hand came up to defend her chest. Hawke noticed and laughed at her again.

"I _have_ seen your heart," Merrill argued, doing her best to keep her voice level. "Sometimes you don't think anyone's looking, but I am. I saw you slip a coin to a beggar once, in Darktown. She was Fereldan, just like you. Like _us_."

Hawke frowned at her and started to interrupt, but Merrill plowed on. "Remember Lord Harriman? You spared him because he'd convinced the Viscount to send aid back home. And you saved the whole city from the Arishok. You fought him _yourself _because you wouldn't let him take Isabela. You wouldn't have done those things if you didn't care about people, Hawke."

Hawke scowled at her, but he didn't say anything and he didn't move. Encouraged, Merrill continued.

"I see how you are with your dog – you love him, you let him lick you and you give him treats... and I see how you are with Anders," she added softly. "You aren't _incapable _of affection, Hawke, and I've seen it so don't try to deny it."

Merrill paused, staring into the black pits of Hawke's eyes. His brows were furrowed in apparent annoyance, and the light of her staff was far from adequate, but she thought she could see a ring of white sclera around the black. She hardly dared to hope.

"I saw how you used to treat him when you thought you were alone," Merrill continued. "I saw you touch his face once after he'd healed you – gently. You _can_ be gentle, you just prefer not to be. When he whispers to you, sometimes, your whole face changes. You're glaring like you are now, you look like you hate the whole world, but then he talks to you, and it's like you light up. You _smile. _I've seen you smile, Hawke, and not in a cruel way."

"Enough!" Hawke said suddenly. His free hand came up almost uncertainly to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Stop... stop talking. Just stop."

She was getting through to him, Merrill _knew_ it. How far should she push? Ideally, just far enough to bring him to his senses, but not so far as to provoke the demon. Would such be possible?

"Hawke," Merrill said quietly, "I know you like to present yourself as mean and angry and violent all the time, but you can't fool me into thinking that's always how you really feel." She felt tears gathering in her eyes. She let them fall.

"When Anders got hurt once on the Wounded Coast," she said with a catch in her voice, "hurt so badly he couldn't even heal himself, you carried him all the way back to the city. Do you remember that?"

Hawke shook his head. Merrill felt a brief crush of discouragement, but she pushed it away.

"Try!" she urged. "Please try to remember, Hawke! Remember _yourself_. Fight this thing that has control of you. This thing has taken _you_ away from _you. _Are you going to just let it _do_ that? Let it hurt everyone you care about, everyone you love? The Hawke I know would never just lie down and let some thing walk all over him! This is your life!"

"Life," Hawke muttered. Merrill nodded eagerly.

"Life..." Hawke's eyes flashed red and his hand was suddenly locked around Merrill's throat. "The sensual violence of lust is all the assurance we will ever need to know the worth of life."

Merrill couldn't suppress a despairing sob. She had been so close, and she had failed. And she hadn't just failed to save herself; she'd failed Hawke. Not to mention Anders, and the others Hawke would no doubt go on to hunt after he'd dealt with her. Now Merrill could barely breathe with Hawke's hand on her throat, squeezing her.

"It surprises us that more of our kind do not reach for it," Hawke went on musingly. "Here, where the walls are so thin, the magic so strong... life is powerful. Life is sensual... violent..." His eyes drifted closed and an aroused shudder rippled over his body. His armoured hand contracted around Merrill's throat as his eyes opened, and Hawke let out a soft, almost erotic grunt. "Its taste is... delectable, indeed."

Merrill struggled vainly against him, reaching for her knife with one hand. She would not die without defending herself. She would fight to her last breath, her last drop of blood. Hawke seemed aware of her intent; his gaze went to her hand scrabbling at her waist for the knife in her sheath, and his eyes narrowed.

Before Merrill could draw her knife or Hawke could try to stop her, a series of aggressive barks shattered the stillness of the deep darkness all around them. With a suddenness that startled both human and elf, Hawke's own Mabari hound, Reaver, evolved from a blur of motion in the shadows. In the blink of an eye he'd charged and pounced, ramming into Hawke's ribs hard enough to send the surprised warrior careening into the darkness with a furious snarl. His metal claws left a faint scratch on Merrill's neck as his arm was yanked away with the rest of his body.

Merrill gasped in relief, coughing a few times as her bruised throat recovered. She gripped the handle of her knife with one hand, massaging her neck with the other, looking around for where Reaver and Hawke had gone. They were beyond the illumination of her staff, but Merrill could hear the warrior fighting his Mabari hound. Both of them were snarling, and the elf could hardly distinguish which of them was making what noises.

"Merrill!" Eingana rushed into her circle of light with her blades drawn. "Are you-" She was cut off in surprise as Merrill rushed into her arms and hugged her tightly.

"Thank you," Merrill sobbed. Her whole body was trembling with weakness and fright, still gasping for breath. "Oh, thank you, Commander. You saved my life. He was... he would have..."

Eingana recovered from her surprise and stoked Merrill's back softly, carefully avoiding injuring her with either of her swords.

"It's alright, Merrill," Eingana said soothingly. "You're safe for now. But we don't have much time."

Merrill backed away, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "Yes. I... I'm sorry I did... that. But he..." She shook her head. "I don't like Hawke like this. He's so... so _evil_!"

Eingana nodded. "I understand. Hawke's not himself."

"I was _almost_ through to him," Merrill said ruefully, reminded of what had happened just before Hawke had attacked. "I was talking to him about his love for Anders, and how he really is a good person deep down even though he's angry and mean all the time... I swear by the Creators, I saw him start to fight it for a moment, but then the demon came out and attacked me. He would have killed me for sure if you and Reaver hadn't shown up when you did."

"I'm glad to hear that," Eingana said, her relief obvious. "Not that he nearly killed you, but that you had some success in communicating with Hawke. That he's still fighting for control is a good sign – he isn't broken and he hasn't given up. There _must_ be a way to save him, if Wynne gets here in time. She should be here soon, but there's the slight problem that she will arrive at the mansion above us. We need a way to get Hawke up there and back under control."

Merrill glanced anxiously in the direction Reaver and Hawke had gone. The sounds of their battle had died away. Her heart clenched in fear for the dog. Surely Hawke wouldn't kill his beloved Mabari, even under the demon's influence?

"Reaver?" Eingana called out cautiously. An answering woof from the darkness made both elves sigh with relief.

Reaver limped into the circle of light cast by Merrill's staff. He wasn't grievously wounded, but his fur was ruffled and bloodied in a few places, and he seemed to be favouring his right foreleg.

Merrill knelt down to hug the dog gratefully. "Thank you, Reaver," she said sincerely. "You saved my life and you fought your own master to do it. I won't forget this."

Reaver snuffled at her and licked her cheek tiredly. Merrill smiled sadly.

"Why did Hawke flee?" she wondered as she stood up. "I doubt he'd have had much trouble killing all three of us. I have barely enough energy to keep my staff lit."

"Well, that's the thing," Eingana said, peering into the darkness as shuffling and grunting sounds became audible. "Reaver and I had to do a bit of fighting to get this far..."

"Fighting? Against what?" Merrill asked. She turned to look where Eingana was staring. Brows furrowed in concern, Merrill raised her staff and, gritting her teeth with the effort, intensified its light. She pointed it down the corridor in the direction Hawke had gone. Eingana cursed.

"Merciful Creators," Merrill breathed. The light from her staff fell across a solid wall of undead staggering towards them, many of them dragging dirt-encrusted blades or axes. As many as half were no more substantial than ancient, mouldy skeletons held together by flitting, jumping tendrils of spiritual energy. Those who still possessed flesh on their bones were invariably in a state of advanced decomposition. As the light revealed them, an unholy chorus of hissing and hoarse moaning arose.

Merrill shrank back in fear. Barely a moment later, the awful, acrid reek of decayed flash reached them. Merrill covered her nose with one hand and Eingana turned her head away in disgust. Even Reaver made gagging noises.

The undead were still some distance away, but they would be upon the elves and their Mabari companion within minutes. Merrill looked at Eingana, her eyes wide with fear.

"The unnatural are always so... _bothersome_," Eingana commented peevishly, frowning at the approaching horde.

"Warden-Commander... what do you think we should do?" Merrill asked.

"We could fight them, but it would be pointless," Eingana said. "You're exhausted and I'm not exactly well-rested myself. There are too many..."

"Do you have any idea where we are?" Merrill asked, barely keeping her voice from rising hysterically. "I've been lost since Hawke's been hunting me... I don't even know how long we've been down here."

"I don't know where we are, but Reaver can find us a way out," Eingana said.

"Ooh! That's right!" Merrill said, relieved. "I think we should try to find Varric and Anders, but I also had the idea of trying to get to the laboratory beneath Hawke's mansion... there are some books there that might be useful, and supplies. Poultices, potions... and if we could reach the surface we could call for help."

Eingana turned to Merrill, still keeping one eye on the advancing horde. "This laboratory," she said. "What kind of potions do you have there?"

"All sorts," Merrill said earnestly. "Anders and I have been working there for months on research, trying to figure out Hawke's... condition. I think Anders has been using it for longer than that, even, but I never asked. He has a few restorative draughts he said he was saving for emergencies... stuff like he gave Hawke after he fought the Arishok, and he was all pale and shaky from blood loss..."

"That sounds like what we need," Eingana said. "We'll be no good to anybody if we're both collapsing from exhaustion in the face of hordes of walking corpses. We should go to the laboratory first, and up to the mansion – if Bodahn's back, we can send a message with him to the Guard-Captain – and then we can look for Varric and Anders."

Merrill nodded. "Alright. I trust you, Warden-Commander."

Eingana smiled at her, then looked down at Reaver.

"Do you know how to get to the laboratory Merrill's talking about?" she asked.

Reaver woofed an affirmative, but followed it up with a concerned whine.

"What?" Eingana asked.

Reaver turned around and gestured towards the advancing horde of zombies with his snout. He barked aggressively at them.

"Oh," Eingana said, annoyed. "The laboratory is that way, right through the undead. Of course it is."

Reaver made an apologetic whine.

"Is there another way around?" Merrill asked.

Reaver shuffled around in a circle a few times. He didn't know.

"Damn," Eingana cursed.

"Eingana?" Merrill asked in a voice of rising concern, watching the undead continuing to advance. Their one blessing was that the corpses were slow and ponderous, the demons within barely competent at controlling their shells and hampered by rotted muscle and bones softened with age. "Maybe we should, uh, just start that way anyway." She gestured behind them.

"Reaver," Eingana said quickly, "do you think you can find another way to get us to the laboratory, without having to fight through an army of corpses?"

Reaver tilted his head at her and whined.

"You know how I said I'd give you a lamb bone? If you can get us to the laboratory by another route, I won't just give you one lamb bone," Eingana said temptingly. "I'll give you _seven_."

"And I'll rub your belly three times a day for a week," Merrill added.

Reaver looked at her with such a disbelieving expression that both elves couldn't help laughing.

"I swear, I will!" Merrill insisted. "And if I don't, I'll make it up to you. Consider it a free pass for twenty-one cumulative belly rubs to be enjoyed at your leisure."

Reaver considered. He turned around a few times to snarl at the undead. Then he turned back to the elves and sat down. He snapped his jaws at Eingana.

"You have my oath as Warden-Commander of Ferelden that you will have a lamb bone for your efforts thus far, and if you can get us to the laboratory, six more," Eingana said ceremonially.

Reaver ducked his head and growled in a way that seemed to indicate he was making no promises, and bent his nose to the floor to sniff. He pawed around for a moment before apparently finding the scent trail he was looking for and started off, away from the corpses. They were less than ten meters from the elves, and both were relieved to get going.

"I might be able to slow them down if they get too close," Merrill said, "but I would much rather they not. It might just do me in."

"Save your strength," Eingana said. "If it comes to that, I'll cut a few of them up and make a barrier of inanimate bodies for them to trip over."

"Alright," Merrill assented, "but if you need my help and you'll die without it, don't just die. I'm not completely useless, yet."

"Agreed," Eingana said. She gestured towards the dog they were following. Reaver had his nose to the ground, following a trail neither elf could see or sense. "Dog drives a hard bargain," she remarked.

"He's certainly good," Merrill said. "You should see him play diamondback. Varric made the mistake of pointing out his only real tell – he used to wag his tail when he got a good hand. He doesn't anymore and now none of us can beat him."

Eingana laughed.

"I miss Ferelden, sometimes," Merrill said wistfully. "Reaver's pretty much the only Mabari I know. The normal dogs here are all so stupid. You can't bargain with them at all."

"I know, right?" Eingana exclaimed. "I hate the Free Marches!"

**ασυνέχεια**

"Stop," Fenris said, and the tone of command in his voice made Isabela freeze at once.

She eyed him as he lifted one arm, the lyrium in his hand emitting a soft glow. The surly elf brushed his fingers slowly through the air, as if searching for something. His brands alternately brightened and dimmed as Fenris traced his fingers around some invisible flow of magic, following a pattern Isabela could not detect.

Beyond him, the corridor ended, a single closed door being the only apparent means of continuing.

Isabela could hear nothing but her own elevated heartbeat in her ears and her slightly uncomfortable breath. The pirate glanced behind her, wondering what it was that Fenris had sensed. Her lantern was burning as brightly as the wick would allow, but she could see nothing behind them as far as the ninety-degree corner that led back towards the stairs up to the mansion. They'd been down here less than fifteen minutes, a brief enough time that they were still within the limits of the section of labyrinth that was technically supposed to be Hawke's basement. They had passed a number of rooms on the way to where they were now, all empty of anything but assorted uninteresting junk, as well as several corridors branching off into gloom. There had been no sign whatsoever of anybody or anything, living being or reanimated corpse, but Isabela supposed it was possible something could be creeping up behind them.

She shivered and immediately wished she hadn't had that thought. She eyed the gas lamps placed at intervals along the corridor resentfully. These corridors were too dark and too narrow and too cold. Why weren't those lamps lit? It was past high noon outside and this place was still as dark as a tomb. _Don't think the word "tomb." It won't help. Dark as a crypt... no, not "crypt" either, damn it. Focus._

"What is it?" Isabela asked Fenris in a hushed voice, feeling a curious need to keep her voice down in this confining space. She glanced around her, up at the high ceilings of the corridor that remained shrouded in darkness despite the flaring, inconstant light of their lanterns. Isabela rubbed her hands on her arms, unable to shake a feeling of chilly dampness that clung to her skin like cobwebs. She had thought she would hate it down here, and she had been completely right.

"Magic," Fenris muttered. "Can you feel it?"

"No," Isabela said, surprised. "Should I?"

Fenris considered for a moment, but then nodded. "Of course. Come over here."

Isabela walked up beside him hesitantly, looking at the glowing lyrium etched into his skin. "What, Fenris? If there's magic here, you can feel it because of your skin brands. I don't know if I'm quite ready to commit to a full-body tattoo just so I can sense disturbance in the forces, especially not one made of-"

"Put your hand _here_," Fenris cut her off tartly. He indicated a position in the middle of the corridor.

Isabela stared at where he was indicating suspiciously. Fenris made an impatient noise and grabbed her hand that wasn't clutching her lantern, bringing it to the spot before she could utter a word of protest.

At once, Isabela felt a fierce tingling in her fingers. The feeling was like an itch that compelled her to adjust the position of her hand a little. Something in her mind reacted to the probing magic, and she _knew_ the itch would abate if she would only spread her fingers. She did so, and the tingling became pleasant warmth.

Abruptly, something flickered in Isabela's vision with the brief insubstantiality of an afterimage, but with much greater intensity. It was visible for only an instant, but Isabela recognized it at once: a blurred impression of man in heavy plate armour, and not just any man but Michael Hawke.

Isabela blinked and yanked her hand away in surprise. The warmth dissipated at once. The image of Hawke was gone as quickly as it had appeared, but she could still see it in her mind's eye.

"What the crap is _that_?" Isabela demanded, thoroughly unnerved. She shook her hand as if to rid it of any remnant sensation. She felt like warm, damp straps of leather were curling around her fingers.

"A ward," Fenris said. "Set by Anders. I believe his laboratory is just ahead. The magic here is meant to keep anyone out who does not belong." His face twisted into a sneering grimace. "Templars, primarily."

"Oh," Isabela muttered. "Well – that's great. Is there a switch in there to turn on the lights?"

Fenris looked at her oddly. "Probably. Why? We have lanterns. Why waste gas?"

Isabela sighed and shook her head. "Never mind. Why did we stop? Will we be blasted into little bits if we walk forward without the proper key or something?"

"I doubt that," Fenris said. "If that were so, we would never have gotten this far. Our bodies would be in pieces by now, no doubt charred by magical fire."

It never ceased to amaze Isabela how the elf could say things like that as if he were commenting on what he'd had for lunch.

"Our entrance will be rebuffed, however, unless we can open the ward," Fenris went on. "Did you see Hawke?"

"Yes," Isabela said.

"Which of his hands was raised?"

Isabela's brow furrowed. "I don't know," she said. "I didn't see it long enough to notice his hands. All I remember is that it was Hawke."

Fenris gestured for her to put her hand in the magical "keyhole" again, and reluctantly, Isabela did so.

This time she left her hand in place long enough for the warmth to spread over the whole of her hand. The image of Hawke clarified in front of her, becoming sharp and defined but with a rippling quality, as if what she was seeing was reflected on water. Hawke met her eyes. One eyebrow arched, and the corners of his mouth twitched in an almost-smile. Slowly, he raised his left hand and held it out to her, palm forward.

"Place your hand over Hawke's," Fenris said to her. Frowning, unsure what the point of this was, Isabela did so.

The first time, moving her hand from the "keyhole" had caused the image to disappear at once. This time it remained long enough for Hawke's phantom hand and Isabela's to meet in the air. In a flash, the warmth spread down her arm and throughout Isabela's whole body. She felt Fenris's hand on the small of her back, urging her forward. Isabela took a step and the warmth was replaced by a curious coolness that she seemed to pass through, as if she'd walked through a sheet of falling water. Then the bizarre magic had ended and she was standing as before, except one step forward.

Then Isabela inhaled sharply in surprise as another door materialized in the right-hand wall. This door, unlike the one that had already been visible, was slightly ajar.

Isabela gaped, simultaneously astonished and impressed. She reached out and pushed on the door. It whispered open without a sound but for a brief breath of shifting air pressures. As the door opened, soft light blossomed beyond it: a homey fire had burst into life in a hearth on the far wall.

"What...?" was all Isabela could say. She turned to look at Fenris. He had his hand spread in a different spot in the air than the one she had used; as she watched, he stepped forward and a glimmer of light flashed over him with the strange, wavering quality like that reflected from a pool of water.

"The magic keeps out any who are not friends of Hawke's," Fenris said, in answer to her astounded expression. "Or at least, who have no serious designs on his life."

Isabela hurriedly closed her mouth and tried not to look too ignorant. "Why wouldn't Anders make it keep out people who weren't friends of _him_?" Isabela asked as she led the way into the laboratory. "Hawke isn't exactly best buddies with the Knight-Commander, but he's certainly not her enemy, and she isn't his – as far as I know."

"I am curious about that myself," Fenris said with suspicion in his voice. His eyes scanned the walls of the laboratory, lined with bookcases and shelves of innumerable items.

"Do you know what kind of magic that was?" Isabela asked curiously. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"I have," Fenris said. "In Tevinter."

Isabela made an "Ah" expression, but didn't comment. She waited to see if he would offer anything else; after a moment, he did.

"It's called a gatekeeper spell," Fenris said with a strange, distant look in his eye. "Danarius had a... colleague... who was very fond of using them all over his mansion." He used the word _colleague_ as if it were a vile insult. "It is _very_ old magic, and very powerful."

His face darkened to his familiar scowl. "I am rather curious as to where Anders learned it. He must still be alive – the spell would have unraveled otherwise – and our passage through the ward will have alerted him. Hopefully he is now on his way here."

"If Hawke doesn't have him nailed to the floor with knives, you mean," Isabela said.

Fenris gave her a pained, withering look and crossed the laboratory to a long, high workbench. Several books were open across it, many obscured by scattered scraps of parchment and vellum covered with cramped scribbles and esoteric diagrams. Various bits of experimental equipment Isabela couldn't identify occupied the few free areas of workspace. As Fenris approached the bench, a number of candles along it whooshed to life. Fenris paused as the lyrium in his skin shone briefly in sympathetic resonance with the wash of magic. He continued to the edge of workbench and leaned over to examine one of the open tomes.

Even if Isabela hadn't been aware of Fenris's intense distrust of magic, the expression on his face would have been more than enough to convince her to give him some space for a while. She drifted around the perimeter of the laboratory, examining the extensive collection of magical curios and paraphernalia for anything interesting.

Many of the shelves on the walls held collections of jars and bottles, containing a vast array of herbs and other substances. Isabela could identify several of the jars' contents, but far from all of them. Quite a few of the containers held objects clearly magical in nature, or were enchanted themselves.

The shelves and shelves of books were more interesting, but all the titles whose languages she knew concerned obscure magical arcana she had no real interest in understanding and probably wasn't capable of anyway.

Isabela wandered in the direction of the door in the wall opposite the one they'd entered through. It was closed and barred, but it sported a small knothole at eye level. Isabela placed one eye right up to the hole and peered through, but all she could see was darkness. She turned away, considering.

The door was barred from this side, so there was no way it could be opened from deeper in the cellars except by brute force. Isabela suspected not even that would easily grant entrance to the laboratory – there were likely as many enchantments protecting this door as there were the inner one. Earlier, Fenris had seemed under the impression that the branching corridors they had passed were dead ends, or otherwise not where they needed to be. Isabela had deduced that those areas were considered part of the Hawke estate and so were inaccessible except through the room they were now in. Beyond the laboratory itself, Isabela remembered, there was another vault, smaller than the one in the cellars behind them, another thick door that could be bolted and barred, and then the endless tunnels and sewers of the Undercity.

Isabela rather doubted that Merrill, Varric, Anders, Eingana, or Hawke were in the upper cellars beneath the estate. They hadn't seen or heard anyone, not even undead. That meant the others were likely on the other side of this door, and unless she and Fenris opened it, they would have no way to enter the laboratory unless Hawke did whatever magic he did to get past it.

Fenris was still at the workbench, paging through a journal filled with more cramped handwriting that Isabela suspected was Anders's. Isabela folded her arms and chewed her lip, eyes wandering around the room for a clue, a distraction, anything. Her gaze fell on a few open books at the near end of the workbench. Next to them sat a glass jar filled with what appeared to be blood.

Isabela approached the bench and examined one of the books. The text was in old Arcanum, which she couldn't read, but what had caught her attention was a drawing of a shade. Amusingly, it was depicted with its shapeless body extended and its arm-like protrusions outstretched in the manner of the Vediusian Man, a famous sketch of human proportions by the legendary Antivan polymath Leonidas da Trevisi. What was this, a treatise on demonic anatomy? _Oh, those wacky Tevinters_.

She glanced around to the other open tome, but the jar caught her eye instead. It had no label or markings of any kind. Isabela reached out to pick it up, but the strange chill emanating from its surface stopped her fingers inches from the glass. It was either enchanted to preserve the blood, or... it was evil. In Isabela's experience, jars of probably-blood that emanated a mysterious, unnatural chill were almost always evil. She let it be.

The other book had a scrap of parchment atop its spread pages with a few reference numbers recorded. At the bottom of the parchment was a hastily scrawled half-sentence: _distraction/convergence – Emergent Compendium?_

Isabela brushed the parchment aside to see the page of the book and was met with an engraving of a beautiful, intricate design. The text all around it was composed of ancient Tevinter logograms, which she knew by sight but not how to read. She barely glanced at them, fascinated by the spikes and whorls of the design.

Isabela's eyes traced from the beginning of a line which seemed to run unbroken throughout the design and shape much of its features. She followed the line as it looped and curved around various glyphs, back in on itself multiple times, over and under...

Her blood was heating up, and her pulse was accelerating. Isabela shifted, gradually realizing that she was antsy and uncomfortable in the confines of the stale, musty cellar. She felt a sudden, rapidly intensifying urge to exert herself. She wanted to run – through fields of grass, through dunes of sand, through shallow surf. Anywhere. She wanted to feel the wind in her hair. She wanted to _fight_.

Yes, that was it. Isabela's eyes were locked on the design in the book, but her mind was racing through memory, imagining different outcomes to situations from her past. She saw Lucky confront her at the bar in the Hanged Man; he grabbed her wrist, tried to hit her a few times, grew frustrated when she dodged him easily... and then she slit his throat, and reveled in the hot blood pouring down her blade and over her hand, and she was lifting it to her mouth to run her tongue along it-

The book slammed shut in front of her and Isabela leapt backwards with a startled gasp. The tanned, branded hand on the book's leather cover belonged to Fenris. Isabela barely noticed. She was breathing hard as if she'd just run across Lowtown. Her face was flushed and sweaty. She felt a curious hollowness in the pit of her stomach. Barely thinking, Isabela moved forward to open the book again, conscious of only a dim annoyance that Fenris had intervened. Her eyes hadn't finished tracing the design. She wanted to see how it ended. She wanted...

"Isabela," said a voice, piercing the fog around her awareness, and Isabela looked up in time to see the palm of Fenris's hand erupt in brilliant radiance. The lyrium flash stunned her for a moment, and when she recovered, blinking furiously, her mind was clear. Clearer, at least.

"Get control of yourself, pirate," Fenris said, and Isabela realized she had her daggers drawn and raised in front of her as if to defend herself. She sheathed them and gave herself a shake, rubbing her forehead to try and assuage the sudden pounding headache she had.

"What just-"

"The mage is a fool," Fenris spat, turning back to the journal he'd been examining. "He'd be at home in Tevinter. They too routinely leave dangerous magical knowledge lying about for anyone to stumble upon."

Isabela eyed the closed book. "Did that book just-"

"It was the sigil you were looking at," Fenris muttered without looking at her. "Not the book itself. ..._Probably_."

Isabela backed away from the workbench, eyes darting around for anything else that looked like it might try to mind-control her. "Right," she said. "That's creepy. Can we go?"

"Momentarily," Fenris murmured distractedly. "Anders has written here about what he believes happened when Hawke set off his magical trap, and he accidently tapped the city's reservoirs."

"So?" Isabela asked, walking up to peer over his shoulder at the journal. "How does that help us?"

Fenris didn't answer until she'd repeated her question and poked him a few times.

"I'm wondering if we might be able to replicate the effect," he said. "If I could use my lyrium brands somehow..." he made a thoughtful noise.

Isabela stood back and turned around to run her gaze around the room again, considering. She'd heard the theory behind the reservoirs-of-magic thing and how it had apparently caused the entire city to fall under attack by demons, but it had meant little to her. Isabela was a woman of the world, _this_ world, not the other one. She had no idea if such a thing was even possible. But Fenris certainly knew more about it than she did.

She felt warm breath on her neck and an armoured finger trailing down her spine, and Isabela smiled. "Fenris, my dear," she purred, "you know I'm _always_ in the mood, but – is this really the time and place for a tumble?"

"What?" Fenris asked, and then three sets of simultaneous events occurred very quickly. First, Fenris looked up at Isabela just as she looked over at him; second, Isabela realized there was someone standing right behind her as Fenris's eyes widened, his mouth opened in an angry snarl, and he reached behind him for his blade; and third, Isabela leapt forward with her heart pounding in fright as Fenris lunged, his greatsword extended and only barely managing to deflect Hawke's claws away from carving a savage wound into the pirate's back.

"Holy shit!" Isabela exclaimed, spinning to face the two warriors and drawing her daggers as Hawke whirled around Fenris's blade with eerie, preternatural grace. Brutal claws of gleaming red force extended from his gauntlets, slicing in a wide arc as he spun that would have slashed Isabela's throat had she not dropped and darted away. The extreme suddenness of Hawke's appearance and the sheer ferocity of his attack left her breathless and panicky, a far cry from her usual cool confidence during a fight.

Fenris aimed an expertly precise blow at Hawke's hands, apparently trying to dislodge his gauntlets or test the durability of his magical claws. Hawke roared like a demon and knocked Fenris's blade away hard enough to send the elf staggering backwards, fighting to keep his balance as Hawke stalked towards him.

Why hadn't Fenris gone for his legs? Isabela wondered as she inched in a wide circle around the possessed warrior, trying to think of something she could do. Not much was coming to mind, and her thought processes weren't helped in the slightest by her anxiety over the relatively dark, enclosed space she was in – not to mention how nearly Hawke had been to eviscerating her from behind.

Fenris found his feet just in time to parry Hawke's two-handed slash. The glittering demonic claws came within inches of Fenris's face, but his cool, hard expression never changed. Despite the dangerous situation, Isabela couldn't help feeling a surge of fond admiration for the stoic elf. He was much better at the heavy bladework than she – much more the kind of guy to be fighting one-on-one with Hawke, but there had to be _something_ she could do.

Isabela thought of darting in low while Hawke was occupied with Fenris and lacerating his bare feet; she knew how to seriously injure without severing any arteries, and as long as Hawke was disabled he could always be healed later. She thought of Fenris going for Hawke's hands, and with a groan she remembered something Anders and Eingana had said to her the day before: when Hawke was ragey and the demon was near the surface, as now, they were to try their utmost to avoid inflicting superficial wounds – they accelerated the release of energy and only made the entity stronger. Almost like Hawke himself before he had been possessed, Isabela remembered – the more he bled, the angrier and more dangerous he became.

The possessed warrior now had Fenris on the defensive, backing him steadily towards the door – still closed and barred, Isabela noted with surreal disbelief – with repeated, inhumanly fast slashes with one hand and then the other, and sometimes both at once. Isabela looked around desperately for something to throw at Hawke that wouldn't injure him, but would at least distract him long enough for Fenris to slip away. Her eyes settled on a heavy, tarnished silver candlestick sitting on a table across from the workbench, and she grabbed it. She had to sheathe one of her daggers to pick it up.

Fenris was backed against the door, barely keeping Hawke's claws from his face. He'd already taken a number of serious slash wounds to his arms, but he was managing to keep Hawke off him by lashing out savagely with his feet, strengthened and protected by an aura of lyrium-glow. Hawke was snarling like an animal, and the resonance in his voice was making small objects on the workbench vibrate.

Isabela gathered her nerve and adjusted her grip on the candlestick. Ordinarily, she would have made a flippant comment, but she was too wound up with fear and anxiety to think of one. She took aim and threw the candlestick with a perfect spin towards Hawke's head, hard enough to stun – she hoped – but not to kill.

Neither occurred. Almost as soon as the candlestick left Isabela's hand, Hawke spun around with a growl and knocked the improvised missile right out of the air with a _clang_. She didn't even see where it landed; Hawke charged at her before Isabela could really register what had happened. She let out an involuntary shriek of surprise and fear, and only years of experience in knife fights and her fondness for dueling allowed her to slide beneath Hawke's wide slash.

Isabela had at least succeeded in drawing his attention from Fenris, but now Hawke was coming after _her_. She was lucky to be able to draw her other dagger before Hawke had followed her escape and lunged after her. Now she knew what Fenris must have experienced as she retreated under an unrelenting storm of blows, deflecting furiously with her knives when she could and dodging narrowly when she couldn't. Isabela had to call on every trick she knew just to stay alive.

The worst part was seeing Hawke's face so near her, usually so handsome but now twisted inhumanly with hate and monstrous fury. He snarled and growled like an enraged bear. Red steam drifted from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were utterly black but for sparks of blood red where his pupils should have been. Isabela realized intellectually that it was the demon making Hawke behave in this way, but the sight of her friend, and occasional object of desire, so perverted – not to mention the experience of barely being able to deflect his brutal attacks – would haunt her nightmares for a long time afterwards.

"Fenris!" Isabela called, her voice rising in panic. Their situations were reversed: now it was she being forced back towards the door through which they had entered. "If you have any ideas – feel free to try them out!"

"Hawke!" Fenris roared. He slammed his foot down on the wooden floor of the laboratory, and a pulse of spirit energy from his lyrium brands raced outwards in an expanding circle. The entire room trembled at the impact, and when the shockwave reached Hawke, he twitched and hissed in pain. Seeing Fenris's urgent look, Isabela's lightning reflexes allowed her to leap over the wave of force as it rolled past her, but only barely. She felt a wash of uncomfortable heat through the soles of her boots even so.

Hawke stumbled in a wide circle around to face Fenris. His bare feet were singed, apparently painfully, but no skin had been broken. Clever, Isabela thought.

Fenris stood poised with his sword in a ready position in front of him. Hawke glared at him, hunched over and chest heaving with harsh breaths. He held out his hands, and before their stunned eyes, Hawke's greatsword materialized in his grip in a shimmer of crimson magic. His fingers curled around the long hilt in a tight grip, spectral claws on his gauntlets fading away.

Hawke brought his sword up threateningly as Fenris advanced, and the elf subsided. Isabela darted over while she could to stand beside and slightly behind him, daggers held ready to defend his flank.

Hawke watched them both carefully for a moment, and then he slowly straightened. His breathing slowed, and though his expression remained menacing, the red sparks faded from his eyes. For the first time since he'd appeared, Hawke spoke.

"Fenris," he said, and Isabela was surprised that the resonance was nearly gone from his voice. "I may have something to show you later. You will enjoy it, I think."

"Hawke," Fenris said. "What just happened? You've suppressed the demon! Don't stop there – keep trying, keep fighting!"

Hawke's feral expression slowly shifted into a dangerous, unsettling smile. "Oh... this again," he said. "Yes, people keep telling me that."

Isabela rather urgently wanted to know who had told him that, and if they were still alive, but she couldn't bring herself to ask the question. She feared the answer.

Hawke began to move in a slow, unconcerned circle around Fenris and Isabela. The elf turned to keep him straight ahead, and Isabela sidled along behind him in concert with his motion.

"I realize this may be... _difficult_ for you to accept," Hawke drawled. "But I am not the demon."

Isabela raised her eyebrows and exchanged a glance with Fenris. He appeared just as confused as she was.

"Of course you're not the demon," Isabela said. "The demon is the demon. You're you. I think what Fenris meant was-"

"No," Hawke interrupted her. "You misunderstand. _I am not the demon_. I was never 'the demon.' There is no demon."

Isabela's mouth opened in surprise. She looked at Fenris again, but he was staring at Hawke with his eyes narrowed.

"You can't possibly expect us to believe that," Fenris said. "You and I spoke in the estate not two days ago, Hawke, and you made it quite clear that this behaviour was not of your own volition."

"Oh, I didn't think so, then," Hawke said airily. "I thought I was a terrible person for treating Anders the way I did... it was _really _nasty, some of the stuff I did to him..." His eyes drifted half closed and a slow, erotic smile crossed his face. "I'll tell you sometime, Isabela. _You'll_ appreciate it."

The lust in his voice, the wistful expression at remembered violence, was not something Isabela felt she would appreciate at all. In fact, she felt an unpleasant churning in her stomach that usually only happened when she drank too much whiskey.

"But as it turns out," Hawke said suddenly, empty eyes fully open, "it wasn't a bad thing at all. Anders _likes_ what I do to him. He pretends not to because he knows it turns me on when he struggles and cries and begs me to stop. But he wants it just as much as I do." He laughed wickedly, and the sound send shivers down Isabela's spine. "Sometimes _more_ than I do, if you can believe it. The mage is a total glutton for punishment. I'd almost be disturbed by it if it wasn't so..."

It was hard to tell just where Hawke was looking, since his eyes were uniformly dark, but Isabela could almost feel the warrior's gaze snap to Fenris.

"...hot," Hawke breathed, his brow furrowed. "You'd be proud of him, Fenris. He knows just what he is, and he's ashamed. He comes to me to be punished for it because he knows it's exactly what he deserves."

"What are you talking about?" Fenris demanded, and Isabela almost wanted to yell at him to be quiet. She considered herself mildly depraved at best, and she still had no interest in hearing a single word more of this awful conversation.

"Surely you realize," Hawke said softly. He continued to move in a slow circle around Fenris and Isabela, and they continued to turn to watch him. Neither noticed that Hawke was gradually spiraling inward, moving closer to them with each careful step.

"Anders is an _abomination_," Hawke said intently. "An unholy union of mage and spirit that should never be allowed to exist in our world. He is the textbook example of everything the Chantry teaches about the dangers of magic. He is free of their oversight and look at what he has made of himself."

Isabela was becoming deeply confused. Hawke was most definitely not a fan of mages, but she had never known him to express any kind of hatred or ill feeling towards Anders because he hosted Justice. He disapproved of it in principle, she knew, but he had actively defended the mage from templars on more than one occasion, and it hadn't been any barrier whatsoever to the two of them falling in love. She'd watched it happen. It was a long way from a typical love story, but Isabela knew real passion when she saw it.

Whatever Hawke might believe is going on here, Isabela thought, whether or not there is a demon, he is definitely not himself. Not the person he once was. But if he believes he _is_... can he even be saved?

Fenris was confused for an entirely different reason. "What is this nonsense, Hawke?" he asked harshly. "What do you take yourself for? Why do you bleed red energy when wounded? Why are your eyes black like the sky on a cloudy night? _You_ are an abomination yourself!"

"But I am not," Hawke said, spreading his hands. He seemed to have no trouble at all hefting his greatsword upwards with only one hand, and though Isabela's eyes naturally went to the impressive bulging of his arm muscles, she made sure she knew where that blade was pointed at all times. "As I said, there is no demon. Certainly, there is an _entity_... a spirit from the other world, who has taught me much and given me power... but we are not one."

"Then why the personality change, Hawke?" Isabela said. "I know you've never been eager to be buddies with the mages, but why this sudden hate for Anders? 'Raahr, he's an abomination! He needs to be punished! Oooh, hot!' Where did all that come from?"

Hawke's face darkened. "My eyes were opened," he said simply.

"By-" Isabela started to ask, and then with a pang of sadness she understood. "Leandra... and Quentin?"

Hawke nodded, staring at her without expression.

Isabela's face fell. "Oh, Hawke..." Could it be true? Had he really just been broken by his mother's death, and this entity or whatever it was had given him the power to act on his insane hatred for mages, born of Quentin's cruelty to the last of his family?

"Isabela, he is lying to you," Fenris hissed. "He claims not to be an abomination, that this – entity – does not control him, but where did it come from? How did it contact him? How has it 'given him power' if it does not seek control of his body?"

Isabela looked at Hawke. "Well?" she asked.

Hawke gestured his ignorance. "I don't know," he said. "I think it first spoke to me in my dreams, years ago... do you remember that blood mage, Tarohne, who was kidnapping templar recruits and forcing demons down their throats, to corrupt the Order from within?"

"Yes," Fenris said suspiciously. "I was with you when you killed her."

Hawke nodded. "So you were. I believe it was her who first contacted the entity – she likely intended to place it within some hapless host. Keran, maybe, but he proved unsuitable." He smiled darkly. "I, however, did not."

Isabela shook her head in horror. She pinched her eyes shut against a sudden flow of tears. He _was_ an abomination and he didn't even realize it. _Hawke... You poor, poor thing. And poor Anders..._

"Do you mean to say," Fenris said with quiet, dangerous calm, "that this thing has been influencing you for the last several years? Since that day, when we fought Tarohne?"

"Possible," Hawke said. "In fact... probable. As I said, it spoke to me only in my dreams for many years, and most of those times I forgot afterwards. The few times I remembered I believed were simply strange dreams."

"And? When did you realize?" Isabela forced herself to say, fighting to keep her voice steady and hold back her tears. She didn't quite know why, but she didn't want Hawke to see that his situation had upset her. She had a bleak feeling he would only devise some cruel method of using her pain against her for his own twisted enjoyment. "When did it give you this power?"

"The night my mother died," Hawke said. He was looking at her suspiciously, and she felt a clench of abject fear. "I still did not realize it at the time, but in time I learned what it was and the truth of its words... Anders has some theory about it, something about some blood magic of Quentin's altering my body chemistry and allowing the entity to influence my thoughts, and communicate with me by that avenue."

Fenris was shaking his head with a disgusted look on his face.

"The entity taught me to see past my own foolish weaknesses," Hawke went on. "I resisted at first, because I believed what I did at its subconscious behest was hurting those around me. Mostly Anders, and despite what you may think, I love him. I love him _despite_ the fact that he's an abomination – I love him as I've never loved anyone else. He needed this as much as I did. He understands, and even if he does not, he will."

"You _fool_," Fenris spat. "You are its plaything. You as much as say so yourself and yet you do not even see what is right in front of you! I cannot tell you how many times I have seen this very situation occur in Tevinter. The abominations I saw were all once mages, and none of the spirits involved were as unusual or as powerful as the one who controls your every thought, but there is no doubt in my mind that it _does_ control you."

His harsh tone softened somewhat. "Please, Hawke," Fenris implored. "_This is not you_. Isabela and I – we know who you are. We know your _true _self, and this is not it."

"That's right," Isabela urged. "Listen to him, Hawke. Don't let that thing control you any more, and maybe we can still find some way to help you. This can end happily."

Hawke shook his head at them in a weary, disappointed fashion. "For me, it will," he said. "It already has. But for you, it will not. I am sorry. I genuinely like both of you, and I would forgive you if you simply did not understand. You insist on taking it further than that, however, and I will not suffer your interference."

Isabela tensed and Fenris raised his sword, but Hawke did not attack. Instead, he raised his arms. His sword slipped away into insubstantiality and then disappeared completely with a glimmer. An intense red aura flared around Hawke's hands, and both Fenris and Isabela stumbled as the floor trembled unexpectedly. With a roll of his shoulders and head, a ripple of magic bloomed from the possessed warrior's hands in an expanding crimson ovoid, and when it passed over them, elf and pirate both collapsed in agony.

The barred door that led deeper into the cellars trembled suddenly under a barrage of blows. Hawke glanced over at it.

"Ah – some friends of mine," he said, and the otherworldly resonance in his voice made Isabela's ears ring. She barely understood what he said through the mind-numbing pain, severest in her chest and head.

Hawke lifted one hand, and the bar across the door shriveled into denatured grey slag. The door burst open and a mass of walking corpses spilled into the room, knocking those in front over and trampling them indifferently in their frenzy to enter the room. Fenris and Isabela, incapacitated with searing pain on the floor of the laboratory, could only watch in futile horror as the corpses and skeletons, animated by spirits of rage and hunger, lumbered towards them.

Isabela's hand was twitching with the pain that wracked her body and left her unable to make more than a few strangled gasps, but she was determined not to die alone. Inch by agonizing inch, she shoved her hand across the floor and found Fenris's, limp and nerveless at his side. She squeezed his hand as best she could through her anguish, and took some small comfort when he squeezed back.

"Wh- _no_," Hawke said suddenly, and he growled in anger. He stalked towards the seething mass of undead. The magical agony paralyzing Isabela and Fenris abruptly abated, and the startled pirate picked herself up off the floor as quickly as she could through the residual burning ache. This was their chance, and she wasn't going to waste it. She helped the trembling elf to his feet; he clutched his forehead and breathed harshly, lyrium brands flickering in erratic pulses of energy, but he was able to stand on his own.

Both of them looked up in time to see the zombies Hawke had summoned engulfed and consumed by a tide of blue fire that washed over them from behind. They were reduced to filaments of ash in an instant, and through the swirling heat and debris a single bolt whispered from the darkness. It struck Hawke in the shoulder and knocked him backwards, snarling in pain and anger.

Isabela blinked in surprise and a creeping, powerful joy. _Varric_? she thought. _Anders_? Who else could it be?

Sure enough, the blonde mage strode through the dissipating blue firestorm with an upright confidence Isabela hadn't seen in him in a long time. Not all of the blue light went away as he entered the room fully, however, and then Isabela realized with a jolt that it wasn't exactly Anders – it was Justice. His eyes and skin crackled with power, and as he waved his staff in a casting gesture at Hawke, more of his signature azure energy danced along its length.

Varric appeared behind Anders as the bolt he'd fired returned to his outstretched hand with a _thwit_. Isabela watched with mounting elation as the wound on Hawke's shoulder, emanating smoky tendrils of red power, closed over in the only instance the pirate had ever seen anybody use healing as a means of attack.

Anders brought his hands together with a clap, his staff locked between them, and Hawke was lifted into the air by bands of blue energy around his wrists, ankles, and neck. He struggled at once, and the spirit-possessed mage recoiled at the sudden resistance. His expression never wavered – Justice was as hard and determined as ever.

Hawke wrenched himself out of the magical bonds with a grunt of exertion, falling a meter to the floor. Justice staggered as his mana was forced back against him; Hawke recovered first and charged past him and Varric, knocking both from their feet. He disappeared into the darkness with barely a sound to mark his passing, apart from Varric's startled curse and Justice's grunt of pain.

"He flees," Fenris commented scathingly. "He won't fight all four of us at once."

"Even if he did," Isabela said wearily, dragging herself over to lean against a wall, "he'd probably still win. And what's the point? I think he's lost, Fenris. What _could_ we do?"

Fenris could hear the despair in her voice, because he had heard just what she had. Varric, however, looked confused, and Justice angry.

"Do not give up yet," Fenris said to her quietly, but he didn't sound at all hopeful himself.

"Lost?" Varric said as he picked himself up and brushed corpse dust off his coat. "What you mean _lost_, Rivaini? I assume he attacked you, but you're alive – what happened?"

Isabela sighed. "I don't really want to talk about it, Varric."

The dwarf looked stricken at the conspicuous lack of Isabela's usual sly charm. He moved towards her, concerned.

"Are either of you injured?" Justice asked shortly as he too regained his feet.

Fenris extended his arms to display the numerous gashes he'd received in his brief fight with Hawke. Isabela still ached all over from Hawke's spell, but she shook her head. "I'm fine. Thank you for saving us, An- ... Justice. For a moment there I was sure that... that was it." She tried for a relieved grin, but it faltered quickly. Varric reached her side and rubbed her arm reassuringly. Isabela mustered a smile for him in thanks.

Fenris nodded as Justice extended his staff and draped silky tendrils of magic over the elf's wounds, knitting them closed without so much as a mark. "My thanks," he said reluctantly. "For that and for your timely arrival. We certainly would have perished otherwise."

"Do you know the whereabouts of Eingana or Merrill?" Justice requested. When Fenris and Isabela indicated that they didn't, Justice frowned. "I believe I can locate them in the labyrinth, but I may need lyrium to do so – Hawke's magic is-"

"There's no need," said an exhausted voice behind them, and all four turned around to see the two battered elves at the door. Reaver was with them, his muzzle lacerated and much of his fur matted with dried blood. He wagged his tail at the sight of them, but only half-heartedly.

"Seven lamb bones," Eingana muttered. "Now where..."

"Kitten," Isabela said, intense relief flooding through her like a cool balm on a burn. "Eingana! I'm so glad the two of you are safe."

Merrill smiled as she trudged across the laboratory, meeting Isabela half way for a weary hug.

"Me too," Varric said. "Thank the Maker. I was sure we'd all end up dead down there, but here we all are." His face curdled. "Except for Hawke, of course."

Eingana smiled sourly. "I think he passed us a minute or so ago," she said. "Didn't even stop to taunt or attack us. Nicely done, whatever you did."

"Excellent," Justice said. "Everyone is accounted for. We must-"

"Hold, spirit," Fenris interrupted. Justice turned to stare at Fenris, eyes blazing.

"Why have you emerged?" Fenris demanded, unmoved by the intensity of the spirit's regard. "Did Anders summon you, or have you taken control of his body from him?"

"Anders and I are one," Justice said coldly. "He is as present and aware as I am."

"Then where have you been for the last several months?" Fenris countered.

"Dormant. Anders has brought me forth to take advantage of my superior command of magic."

Fenris scowled at the spirit, clearly not satisfied, but he raised no further objection. After Justice's eyes bored into him for a moment more, Fenris waved for him to continue.

"Tread lightly, spirit," he warned.

Justice glared at him. His eyes burned with blue heat. "It is not I you need fear," he said, his voice crackling with power. "Now that we are all together and safe for the moment – and if there are no further interruptions?" There were none. Justice nodded. "I will tell you what must be done."

"Justice has a plan," Varric piped up, apparently trying to head off further objections from Fenris. "He knows how we can use the city's magic to trap Hawke – like Blondie did last time, but intentionally. It will be difficult, and dangerous, but if we play our cards right, we can keep Hawke contained until the enchanter gets here. Hopefully with a solution."

Isabela shook her head mutely, but only Fenris noticed.

"What's your idea, Justice?" Eingana asked. Beside her, Merrill was running her fingers along the multitude of jars that occupied one shelf, searching for one in particular.

"First, someone must return to the mansion above us, to determine roughly how long it will be until the enchanter arrives," Justice intoned.

"Oh! I can do that," Merrill said, turning around with her hand still extended up to the shelf, but Justice shook his head.

"No, Merrill. You are the only one here who is adept with blood magic. You will be needed with me, below."

"Oh." Merrill looked simultaneously disappointed, frightened, and interested. "You need blood magic for this trap you have in mind to work?"

"If we are to catch Hawke within it without killing him, then yes," Justice said. He began to explain his intent to tap into one of Kirkwall's oldest secrets, and how only blood magic could keep Hawke alive during the process that would cut him off from the world until Wynne could get to him.

"What about me?" Isabela asked at a lull in the discussion, while Merrill looked thoughtful. "If you don't need me specifically for anything, I can go up to see what time it is. Wait for the enchanter, maybe. I don't much like these cellars."

She shivered theatrically and her tone was light-hearted, but even Justice could tell that Isabela was deeply uncomfortable. Her usual glibness and innuendos had all but faded in the face of shock, fear, and pain.

"Very well," said Justice in a tone that was almost gentle, but not quite. "You may also wish to send word to Aveline, and return afterwards to help us – if you are able."

Isabela nodded, relief evident on her face.

"Isabela," Eingana said, attracting the pirate's attention. "If we don't get back up there in time, show Wynne the notes Anders and I copied from the book at the Black Emporium. There's a sheaf of information about the rare kind of entity that's got Hawke under its influence, and she'll need to see it to know what to do. The pages are hidden in a book in the drawing room at the back of the first floor – '_Songs of Old Marches: Inscriptions collected by Philliam, a Bard!_'"

"Alright," Isabela said. "If you're not there when Wynne arrives, I'll make sure she sees it." She leaned against the wall with her arms folded and legs crossed, close to the door that led back to the estate. "Tell us the rest of your plan before I go, just in case," she said to Justice.

Justice nodded. "Listen very carefully," he said, "for we will have but one chance."

**Ω**


	20. Slipping Away

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Slipping Away"**

Hawke was getting angry. When he got angry he killed things. But the things he was trying to kill were cunning and they _knew_ him, and they weren't cooperating, which was only making him angrier.

He took out his anger by hacking apart some of the corpses animated by the spirits he'd summoned, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't satisfying. The undead didn't scream in pain or fear, their rotting flesh came apart all too easily under the onslaught of his blade, and even then they bled no hot, living fluid. Even when he commanded them to attack him, it barely got his blood pumping. Slaughtering his own ghastly servants served to expel the turbulent energy Hawke's rage built up within him, but it didn't make the rage go away.

Still, it was better than nothing. He was tempted to summon a more powerful demon and kill it just for a challenge. Or perhaps beat it into submission and co-opt its powers to help him track down these bloody wannabe adventurers that _just wouldn't die_.

_Wannabe adventurers?_ a quiet voice whispered in the back of Hawke's mind. _Have you forgotten who these people are?_

Hawke considered. He supposed they qualified as adventurers. They were capable, even without him to lead them. That damnable spirit that lived in Anders, for instance, was using some powerful magic he'd never encountered before. No matter how hard he exerted the magical senses the wyrd had gifted him with, Hawke couldn't determine where any of his former companions were in the labyrinth of Darktown. Since he'd left them, foolishly, in the laboratory when Justice had appeared and taken him by surprise, they would have stayed together for mutual protection. Scheming against him, likely. If they were stupid enough not to want him dead, they would try to trap him again.

Hawke shuddered. He would not allow himself to be caged, magically or otherwise. Never again. He would kill himself first. And before he killed himself he would kill many, many others, and he would destroy _much_.

So his companions weren't witless or powerless. That didn't mean they weren't misguided fools who needed to die.

_How easily you turn to violence as a solution to every problem_, said the voice_. It's what you've always done, so why should this be any different, right?_

The voice sounded like his mother. Hawke willed his conscience, or whatever it was, to shut up. It didn't. Just like Leandra used to do, when she disapproved of some idea of his and absolutely would not rest until she'd talked him out of it, the voice would not be silent.

Hawke felt a bitter twinge of regret. Sometimes he wondered if his life at this moment would be different if Leandra was still around to talk him out of things.

_Your friends love you_, the voice said ruminatively_. They think you are in terrible danger and are concerned for your mental and physical well-being. How is that any different from Leandra?_

Hawke missed her terribly. An unbearable ache in his chest echoed through the emptiness where she had been. Nothing could ever fill it, but something else had tried, and now it was killing him from within.

Livid more with himself than with his friends, Hawke sundered the Veil and broadcast his fury into the Fade. Five rage demons were drawn to him like nails to a magnet. They forced themselves into turbulent, fiery corporeality, and he tore into them lustfully. He tried to ignore the voice or shut it out, but it kept talking, persistently, stubbornly.

_Your friends fear that you are being influenced against your will by a demonic entity for its own malevolent purposes. They have done research. They have every reason to believe the wyrd will eventually overwhelm your sanity and subsume you into itself. Your body will belong to it, then. You will be a shadow, a husk of a mind forced impotently to watch atrocities committed by the flesh and blood that should belong to you._

Hawke screamed at the rage demons as he killed them, but he wasn't sure if it was fury or terror that fueled his unearthly cry.

_They are worried and trying to help you in the only way they can – keep you under control until expert help arrives. And for this they must die._

Yes, Hawke thought desperately. Yes, they must die. He clung to that thought even through its sheer irrationality, trying to redirect the terrible rage that was burning him from the inside out against his friends, as it had been not an hour ago. He failed. What had they done to him?

_They must die – for what? For loving you?_

_Must Varric die? Varric, the dwarf who is the closest thing to a best friend a bitter, cruel bastard like you could have?_

That wasn't Leandra's voice at all. That was Hawke himself. Leandra wouldn't have called him a bitter, cruel bastard – not out loud, anyway. She would have lied to him out of love, lied to spare his feelings. Not that he had feelings. He was inhuman. He was a creature, a monster. He might as well act like one.

_Varric must die, whose Deep Roads expedition is the reason you are wealthy?_

And got my sister killed. Yes, he must die.

Hawke's heart clenched. _Bethany._ He hadn't allowed himself to think of her for... he didn't know, but it felt like a long time. How he missed her easy smile. She had never grown bitter, living the cramped, secret life of a Chantry fugitive. She had been sunshine in Hawke's darkness. Then he had pulled her into the darkness with him and she had not emerged.

And Carver... longer still. Might Carver have allowed him to act like this, had he survived their flight from Lothering? Would Carver have stood by and let his brother tear apart everything he'd built?

No, Hawke knew instinctively. But Carver and Bethany were long gone. They were silent, waiting for him with Leandra and Malcolm, in the warmth and soft darkness at the Maker's side. He envied them.

_And Merrill? _

The elf's words from earlier echoed in Hawke's mind. _The real Michael Hawke would never behave like this._

Merrill is a blood mage, Hawke argued with himself. Why, _why_ would this troublesome voice not be silent? What tormented him so?

_You're a good man_, Merrill had said. _You have a good heart. I've seen it._

How could she have? She must have been lying. But why? Why would Merrill lie to him? Merrill, whom he was not even sure knew _how_ to lie?

_She saved you from Fell Orden. She's helped you multiple times at great risk to herself. She follows you even though you perpetuate the oppression of her kind because she believes you mean well. She follows you even though you don't believe in her or what she's doing because she respects your opinion and your experience._

_You can be gentle_, Merrill had said. _You just prefer not to be_.

No. He could not be gentle. It was not in him to be gentle. Once, maybe. More so after he'd met Anders. Then there had been blood mages, sucking away the last of what made him human and stripping him bare, revealing him for what he really was: a creature of rage, and one who deserved no sympathy. _What_, he wondered, did Anders see in him? How could the man continue to love such a monster after everything he'd done?

The corridor ahead of him was filled with aimlessly staggering undead. Waiting for his orders. Hawke carved into them with a furious roar.

Why had his friends abandoned him? Why couldn't they understand? Of all of them, Hawke had thought at least Merrill would be sympathetic. Merrill used blood magic – she knew that real power came at a price. She had a spirit who helped her.

_This thing has taken you away from you. Are you going to just let it do that? This is your life!_

It was Hawke's own life to ruin, and ruin it he had, grossly and irreparably. He was such a fool. He should never have gone with that lunatic he'd fallen for in the Dane's Refuge. He should not have killed the dragon and he should not have imbibed its blood, especially not after a stranger had altered it with chemicals and blood magic. What had he been thinking? How far would the ripples of that idiotic act of a lustful young man spread? How much more destruction would they cause before they dissipated, finally and forever?

_Must Fenris die? Fenris who shares your views on mages, who has suffered at their hands as much as you have and likely a great deal more? Fenris, whom you do not get along with as friends, but who respects you as an equal and whom you respect in turn?_

What had Fenris said to him? _You are its plaything. You as much as say so yourself and yet you do not even see what is right in front of you!_

Fenris had seen demons, seen abominations. He knew how they behaved and what they did to their victims. Had Fenris ever lied to him? Had he any reason to lie?

_Must Isabela die? The woman who risked a fate much worse than death on your behalf? She returned with the Tome of Koslun when it was in her own interest not to. She's stuck by you for years. She's believed in you against her better judgement._

_Eingana? She came here to help you, because Anders asked her to. She is the Warden-Commander. She has pressing business that concerns the safety of the world itself, and she is instead hunted by undead through a mouldy cellar because she has chosen to help a friend._

_Aveline? The Captain of the Guard, who could have made your life the living Void if she so chose, with what she knows about you and what you've done? Aveline, who has risked so much for you because of what you did for her, during the Blight and afterwards? She has long since paid her debts, and you and she both know it. Still she makes sacrifices, against her beliefs, on your behalf._

Hawke had no arguments. It was all true. He felt as dead as the corpses he was slashing to pieces. The violence he was perpetrating was mindless, devoid of feeling. He was exerting force through his muscles, and this was the limit of his involvement with the world.

_The sensual violence of lust is all the assurance we will ever need to know the worth of life_. So the wyrd had said. Once, Hawke might have sympathized. Once, that was all he'd ever needed, too.

No longer, he realized. And yet now, it was too late to deviate from the path down which he had launched himself so recklessly. Much too late.

Hawke so missed feeling alive. Few things had ever made him feel that way. Killing; sex; Anders.

It seemed like only one of those still had any value to him.

But how could Hawke ever face the man who had been his lover? But then, how could he _not_? It certainly couldn't be avoided at this point. He had finally pushed too hard, cut too deep, and Justice had at last been provoked into emergence. Now there were many spirits involved, not just Anders's companion or the wyrd, but hundreds more, if not thousands. The city of Kirkwall was being invaded from across the Veil, and it was Hawke's fault. If only he'd known...

Fenris was right, of course, and so was Merrill. So were all of them. Hawke was at the mercy of the wyrd, the bizarre creature from the spirit world that had been drawn to his taste for bloodshed and usurped it for its own power. He was its plaything, and as long as it had some foothold in his body and mind, he would never, ever be free of it.

The realization washed over Hawke slowly, coldly, like a pond freezing with the onset of winter. With it came the renewed rage, the shame, the terror; most of all, the despair. Hawke wanted to weep, so awful was the wretched hopelessness that choked him.

His maddened, senseless hacking at the animated corpses slowed and finally stilled. Hawke's eyes were dull and black. His sword drifted down until the point came to rest against the dusty floor, feeble fingers barely clinging to the hilt.

Within him, however, the rage boiled hotter than ever. This was _his_ body, and he would _not_ relinquish it without a fight.

Then Hawke began to walk, gathering the remaining undead to follow him.

Inside, he screamed and raged unendingly, but he could exert no control over his own flesh and blood. This was no longer his body. There would be no fight.

Hawke reached for the voice, desperately, calling and crying out for its words of shattering insight and inevitable truth, but it was gone. If it was Leandra, she had moved on in despair, abandoning her son to his chosen fate. If it was himself, he had been beaten down by the wyrd, into submission.

Hawke had never been beaten into submission in his life. Not once, ever, had he yielded to an opponent of any kind. He had intended things to remain that way. There was nothing that would not die when stabbed deeply enough, cut into enough pieces, burned with a hot enough flame of rage. Other enemies fell before barbed insults, spitted curses, or intimate, cruel secrets. Or so he'd once thought. Now, at long last, Michael Hawke had met something he could not kill. What hope did he have?

Anders, he thought. Anders would fight for him, curse the man's pigheaded devotion to him. If he could be saved, Anders would save him. But at what cost? What price would Anders end up having to pay to save the despicable creature that Michael Hawke, once so proud and strong, had become?

_Don't sacrifice yourself for me,_ Hawke pleaded silently, and he clung to a vain, irrational hope that Anders would hear him, somehow.

_Could _he even be saved? Hawke wondered for a time. It was unlikely. And even if he could, he would no doubt be lost to gibbering madness long beforehand, and when the enchanter showed up and worked a miracle to free him from the wyrd, he would be insensate with crazed bloodlust and he would attack whatever was in front of him until it was paste and shreds of matter. He would need to be put down for the safety of the city.

Yes... that would be better, Hawke thought. Better to die for the good of many than to be twisted into their worst nightmare and bring the living Void to Thedas.

Aveline would see to it; she would see him consumed by his own fires before he could spread them out in a wash of destruction and burned Kirkwall to ashes around him. Aveline would stop him, somehow. That brought Hawke some comfort.

Hawke only hoped she would disallow Anders from watching. He'd hurt the man so much already. He'd caused so much pain, Hawke couldn't bear the thought of doing any more.

He realized then that he wanted to die, and perhaps he even had for a long time, but it had only been the thought of Anders's reaction that had stopped him. Well, now it was too late, and Anders would just have to understand. He would have to be strong. He had Varric and Isabela, and he would have Hawke's estate and his wealth – that he had seen to long ago.

So Hawke drifted, slipping away from the world, barely paying attention to what the wyrd was doing with his mouth and eyes, his hands and his sword. He was so tired. He'd convinced himself that things would be fine, eventually. When had Aveline ever let him down?

Gradually, inevitably, but at last having found some measure of peace, Hawke was swept towards madness and death.

**ασυνέχεια**

The sun was setting, and in the gathering darkness of the far horizon, the city of Kirkwall burned.

Plumes of smoke rose from the skyline in several places, canted with the wind and washing indistinctly into the deep blue of encroaching twilight. Several fires were burning amongst the blocky spires of Hightown, but most of the smoke originated in the Lowtown sprawl that filled the vast pit of the ancient quarry. Even this far away, out on the coastal road that led west past Cumberland and eventually to Val Royeaux, bits of ash occasionally drifted down on the wind. Every so often, the earth rippled with a quiet tremor, accompanied by a barely audible rumble.

Cullen frowned and wrinkled his nose as he caught a faint but unmistakable whiff of something vile on the breeze. He hated that there was no question in his mind as to what it was, but he'd smelled enough burning flesh during Uldred's coup at Kinloch Hold to scar the odour into his memory for the rest of his life. He was deeply unsettled by the apparent condition of the city; there hadn't been nearly so many obvious fires when he had set out, many hours before.

"You did mention a _minor_ outbreak, yes?" Wynne commented wryly next to him.

Cullen made a face. "It appears the situation has deteriorated somewhat since I departed."

"All the more reason to get there as soon as possible," Wynne said. She waved him on emphatically with one hand. "Move along sharply, young man, or I shall have to Hasten you out of sheer impatience."

Cullen suppressed a sigh and picked up his strides. Despite the flustered Knight-Captain's repeated pleas for her to slow down, Wynne had steadfastly insisted on maintaining a strenuous pace that Cullen might have set for templar recruits building their stamina, in preparation for combat in heavy plate armour.

Wynne had been a highly respected and influential senior enchanter at the Fereldan Circle of Magi when Cullen had first known her, and in the intervening years her reputation had only grown – particularly after helping Eingana Tabris defeat the Blight. She hadn't been young then, but in the years she had been in Cumberland, and he in Kirkwall, Wynne seemed to have aged a great deal. Her skin was papery and dry, swimming with liver spots; her face was tired and lined with innumerable wrinkles; her hair was airy, insubstantial and snow white. In spite of all this, Wynne remained lucid and clear, her eyes bright, her compassion – and her sternness – utterly undiminished. The aura of magical power about her was palpable, fairly crackling in its intensity.

Wynne had refused to allow her back to bend under the weight of age, but to Cullen, she seemed to have aged a hundred years since they'd last met. He couldn't shake a persistent perception of her as wispy and frail. She looked so – so _small_, wrapped in her voluminous Nevarran robes, leaning on her staff perhaps more than was necessary for simple locomotion. Cullen couldn't deny her competence, however, or her capability. There was certainly no rational purpose behind his fears for her health. More than once, Cullen was almost tempted to ask her to slow down just to get a respite for _himself_. He was the one wearing heavy armour, after all. Each time, he balked upon imagining the tongue-lashing Wynne would no doubt give him for complaining despite his youthful vigour. Cullen remembered quite vividly the burning shame of being reprimanded by the senior enchanter at the Fereldan Circle, for something he didn't even remember, and he had no wish to repeat the experience.

Presently, examining with concern the city they approached, the Knight-Captain's thoughts turned to the reason for Wynne's journey from Cumberland. After they had proceeded in silence for several minutes, Cullen felt compelled to repeat the question that had been bothering him for some time.

"Enchanter," he said carefully, "You never did answer my question about the nature of the spirit that possessed the Champion."

"That is because I do not know the answer, Knight-Captain."

"Please, call me Cullen," he said cordially, not wishing to remind Wynne about Meredith's insinuated mistrust by flaunting his rank.

"I will if you call me Wynne," she replied, and smiled teasingly when he flushed.

"Surely you must know _something_ about the spirit," Cullen said determinedly. "Guard-Captain Aveline informed me that you fought and killed something of a similar nature with Warden-Commander Tabris at the Circle Tower in Ferelden, during the Blight."

"Well, there is that," Wynne said. "But the creature I believe you are referring to was a wyrd, not a spirit."

"Right." Cullen scratched his forehead. A _wyrd_... He knew that word. He'd studied the types of spirits as part of his templar training, years ago. What was it...

Wynne saw his look of confusion and huffed impatiently. "A wyrd," she said in the tone Cullen imagined she generally reserved for particularly slow apprentices, "is an entity born of the Fade that is composed of, and feeds on, errant thoughts that lack the focus and singularity of purpose required to produce a true spirit, or by extension a demon."

Cullen snapped his fingers. "Right, that's it. Slipped my mind."

"Now I'll have none of your lip, young man," Wynne said severely, and Cullen cracked a smile. "There are numerous varieties of wyrds just as there are numerous varieties of spirits. The one that was released into the Circle Tower during the... _incident_ you spoke of... was a _Shah _wyrd. A coalescence of many thoughts, all formed with great intensity – power, in other words, within the Fade – but undirected and purposeless. Its nature was to distract, to divert the unwary from their focus, and in so doing render them its helpless slaves, ready sources of nourishment."

Cullen's face was twisted in distaste. "And you killed it, right?" he asked. "How powerful was it?"

"I did not kill it, no," Wynne said. "Eingana killed it, with help from Leliana – she is the archer who was with us when we found you beneath the Harrowing Chamber – and I helped by keeping them alive long enough to do so, but it was a near thing. Alistair very nearly perished in its initial attack, and he couldn't participate in the battle that ensued. It was a formidable creature. It had been trapped in the Tower for centuries before the conflict released it."

Cullen was about to ask something else, but Wynne cut him off. "From what Anders told me in his letter, and from my own research, while I believe that whatever influences Michael Hawke _is_ a wyrd, I do not think it is a _Shah_ wyrd."

"Oh?" Cullen asked, at once curious and afraid. "Do you have an idea of what it could be?"

"No," Wynne sighed. "That will have to wait until we meet up with Anders and Michael in the city, and Anders can tell me in detail what he knows."

"Aveline – she is a friend of the Champion's, by the way – also mentioned that you had indicated you believe Hawke can be saved."

"There may be a way, yes," Wynne said. "It will depend on the nature of the wyrd and the extent of its control over him."

Cullen chewed his tongue in worried thoughtfulness. The potential of the threat posed by the possessed Champion demanded his attention, but there was also the matter of the rest of the city. He wondered if it would be wise to postpone their visit to the Hawke estate to check in with Aveline first. Depending on the power the Champion commanded via the wyrd inside him, they might very well need additional templars as reinforcements. There were precious few he could trust not to inform Meredith too soon. There were quite a few more, like Knight-Lieutenant Karras, who would simply leap to their own fool conclusions about any secretive missions involving the Champion's estate he assigned to others, and report to Meredith with whatever wild story they came up with.

Going against the stated wishes of the Knight-Commander made Cullen distinctly uneasy, but Meredith herself made him uneasy. Dark whispers abounded in the Gallows, among both the mages and the templars, that she was insane. Cullen dearly wished he could have dismissed such stories as fantastical, mean-spirited drivel, but the fact remained that he'd harboured suspicions of his own about the Knight-Commander's mental stability for some time. When it came right down to it, it was Cullen's duty as Knight-Captain of the Templar Order to protect the city from threats both magical and demonic, and conversely to protect mages who were not dangerous from zealotry and persecution. If one or both of those duties involved insubordination against a corrupt and possibly mad Knight-Commander, well... that was just how it would have to be.

"Cullen," said Wynne, and he looked over at the elderly mage. "I wonder if I might ask you something."

"Of course. What is it?"

"Does Knight-Commander Meredith believe me to be a danger to the city of Kirkwall?" she asked with a hint of wryness in her voice, and Cullen winced. It was as if she'd heard his thoughts.

"I, ah... I don't believe so, no," he said uncomfortably.

"I am glad to hear that. How peculiar, then, that she insists I be escorted into her jurisdiction from several hours' travel outside its limits, and by no less than the Knight-Captain himself." Wynne's voice remained light, but Cullen could hear steel behind it. Silently, he cursed Meredith's paranoia.

"I actually volunteered to be the one to meet you, Enchanter," Cullen said, unconsciously slipping back into a deferential tone. "I did not personally agree with the Knight-Commander's assessment that you needed an escort of any kind. I realize that such a gesture is... an insult to a mage of your power and standing, whether or not Meredith intended it as such."

Wynne said nothing, but her lips were pressed tightly together.

"I had hoped that you might instead view my presence and my rank as a gesture of respect, given our history," Cullen went on.

Wynne softened. "I see. That was thoughtful of you, my dear. Thank you."

Cullen smiled and nodded, relieved that Wynne understood. A blush crept up his neck as he realized her use of "my dear" instead of "young man."

Wynne seemed about to say something else, but before she had finished opening her mouth, a brilliant light flashed in the city ahead, surprising them both. Moments later, a violent tremor rocked the barren earth, and both of them only barely kept their feet. A deep thunderous noise rolled past them like a shockwave, stirring up dust as it passed.

"What in Andraste's–" Cullen began, by Wynne cut him off.

"Cullen, be careful!" she shouted, raising her staff into a defensive position. Crystal blue magic flared around her entire body. "A demon is attempting to breach the Veil!"

"What – here?" Cullen asked with dawning horror, and his brow furrowed in alarm when she nodded. He drew his sword, unstrapped his shield from his back, and readied himself, scanning the area ahead of them. He glanced around to the road behind them, searching for the tell-tale distortion in the air that indicated a demonic emergence was imminent.

It became all too obvious when his gaze swept back to their front where the demon was emerging. The air scant meters in front of them was rippling and bulging, a glowing rip of force becoming ever more prominent.

"Cullen," Wynne said, "listen to me carefully. It is a demon of Pride."

"Maker's mercy," Cullen hissed. "What is going on here?"

"Listen," Wynne urged. "We cannot afford to be drawn into a long battle with the creature. As soon as it emerges, I will petrify it. You must go for its head, and kill it with your first blow. Can you do that?"

Cullen tightened his grip on his the handle of his shield and raised his sword into a ready position. "Yes," he said. She was right. Pride demons were notoriously resistant to magical attack. If his initial strike failed to kill it, it would shake off Wynne's spell and unleash its fury against them.

"Good. Be ready, now."

Both of them eyed the growing rift as its edges began to drift apart under the otherworldly force assaulting the Veil from the other side. The light radiating from it soon became almost unbearably intense, but Cullen did not look away. His timing would have to be perfect if this endeavour was to go as planned. He took several deep breaths, steeling himself and planning the motions he would make.

The light flared into brilliance for a bare moment, and a screeching, tearing noise ripped the air around them. When it faded, a hulking pride demon was standing before them. It spread its bladed arms and let out a roar.

Wynne swept her staff in a gesture of power before her, and emerald forces converged on the demon. Its skin hardened and became brittle and grey. Cullen charged.

As he neared the demon, he let out a yell and leapt with all his strength and momentum into the air. At the same time, he swung his sword in a broad, horizontal arc. It clashed against the petrified demon's head with a bone-jarring _clang_, and the creature's hideous visage and face, stilled by Wynne's magic, exploded into fragments and powder.

Cullen twisted his shoulder with his blow to avoid slamming chest-first into the demon; the pauldron of his armour collided with the pride demon and knocked its desiccated body over. As it hit the road, it disintegrated into chunks of rock, the living magic having been made permanent with the creature's death.

Cullen managed to land somewhat gracefully – he didn't fall face first into the demonic rubble, at least. He stumbled a few times through the gruesome debris before he controlled his momentum, and turned around to examine their kill.

Wynne stood calmly with her staff planted on the road next to her. "Well done, Cullen," she commented, as if he were an apprentice who had just solved a particularly tricky arithmetic problem.

"You as well," Cullen replied, sheathing his sword and replacing his shield by its strap on his back. A mage and a templar working together, he thought, made a formidable team. Especially against a demon – pride demons were feared for a reason, and they had just killed it without it getting a proverbial word in edgewise. _This_ was how things should be, not mages versus the world with templars as the arm of their oppression. But Meredith rarely asked for his ideas.

"This is very bad," Cullen remarked as Wynne approached the chunks of stone and dust that had once been the demon. "For a pride demon to emerge this far outside the city, I fear what is happening within it."

"The Veil is very thin here," Wynne said soberly. "It has been thinning progressively for some time as we approached Kirkwall. I cannot imagine the situation is anything but worse inside the city."

Cullen stepped around a large piece of the demon's bladed arm as they resumed their journey, not wanting to waste another moment. "Do you think we will be able to do anything?" he asked, almost not wanting to hear her answer.

"The wyrd is very old and very powerful," Wynne said by way of answering. "It is my understanding that the Veil has always been weak in Kirkwall, and the release of magical forces you told me about only weakened it further. I suspect the wyrd has taken advantage of this – it may be continually summoning demons from the Fade, and increasingly powerful ones as time passes, preventing the Veil from repairing itself."

Cullen felt cold terror creeping through him. He remembered all too well the desire demon that had burst into Hightown Square the previous evening, already engulfed in battle between minor demons and the city guard, and possessed Ser Lucien. The man had been a good friend of Cullen's, and the pain of his death was still very fresh.

Telling Lucien's wife what had happened to her husband had been supremely awful. Hearing the cries of his children had been worse. Cullen wondered how many more people's worlds he would bring crashing down by telling them how their loved ones had died. He wondered if anyone's world would come crashing down if _he_ died.

"The wyrd _must_ be dealt with," he said quietly, and Wynne looked over at him, perhaps sensing some of the intensity of his emotions. "Whatever the cost," he added, though it pained him to realize what that cost might be.

Wynne said nothing, only nodded grimly. She threw him a look and broke into a light jog, clearly determined to get to the city as fast as possible. Cullen couldn't help his concerned for the elderly enchanter, but instead of asking her to slow down, he simply matched her pace.

**ασυνέχεια**

Varric had been born on the surface, and so had no Stone sense. Privately, he thought the whole concept of a Stone sense was ridiculous, but long years dealing with Bartrand and various kalnas had taught him never to say so aloud. Even so, it wasn't hard to realize that they were going down.

Varric had never been this deep in the bowels of Darktown, and every instinct in his body screamed at him that it was a horribly bad idea. He also might have taken into account the clear memories he had of at least nine different people telling him over the years that wandering into the sewers beneath Kirkwall was insane to the point of practical suicide.

Still, Fenris maintained that he remembered the way back up through the twisting corridors and dank cellars to the laboratory, from which it was fairly easy to get back to the Hawke estate or find one's way out into the traveled areas of Darktown. Justice also insisted that he would be able to lead them out by using his magical senses, as would Anders even without the spirit's help. This of course took it for granted that one or both of them would still be alive after this entire clusterfuck ended, which it would eventually, one way or another. Varric had no choice but to trust them, because he was leagues past being lost.

A few times on their long, winding journey down into the malodourous depths, Justice stopped at seemingly arbitrary points and began to do things with magic that Varric could not identify. Justice would stand on a certain patch of floor, insisting that they all move back a fair distance, and begin to gesture and weave with his hands and staff. Twisted strands and snarled ribbons of magic would become faintly visible after a time, and it appeared to Varric that Justice was trying to untangle these flows of energy so they ran smoothly and parallel. Once he'd done so to what seemed the maximum extent possible – for it seemed that some of the knots in these ancient magical systems were too far gone even for a spirit to loosen – Justice would gesture imperiously and they would move on.

Other times Justice would pause before a wall, invariably just as featureless and grimy as every other bit of wall as far as Varric could tell, and draw glyphs on it for a random amount of time before abruptly finishing and resuming the trek.

Eingana and Fenris were engaged in a quiet discussion behind them, and whatever debatable interest Reaver had in magical praxis was overshadowed by his deep, abiding fascination with the gaunt rats that infested the Undercity and habitually scurried away from the light of Justice's staff. Merrill, however, watched the spirit's enigmatic casting with rapt interest and curiosity. If anyone could link the magical technobabble Justice had outlined in the laboratory as part of his plan with what the spirit was doing now, it would be Merrill, Varric thought.

After the sixth or seventh time Justice brought them to a halt and gestured for them all to move back – Varric had lost count – he crept up beside the Dalish elf. She had cautiously disregarded the spirit's instructions and strayed closer to Justice than he'd requested. Justice noticed, but didn't object, so Varric figured it was safe enough.

"What's he doing, Daisy?" Varric asked in a hushed voice, not wanting to distract Justice as the mage crouched down and began to draw an elaborate sigil in the dust. Anders's face was frowning in concentration, but his radiant, azure eyes remained wide in an unsettling way, as if the magic emanating from them prevented him from blinking. Varric tried to remember if he'd ever seen Anders blink while Justice was active. He couldn't, but that didn't mean Justice didn't blink. He hoped.

"What?" Merrill asked, and then said, "Oh! He's aligning the flows of magic he'll need to spring the trap on Hawke."

"Right, I gathered that," Varric said dryly. "This is more of that stuff about Kirkwall being a gigantic magical battery?"

"Oh, it's much more than just a battery," Merrill said enthusiastically. "It's more of a... a system. Almost like a huge machine. All sorts of things can be done with it, or could have been, once."

"Huh," Varric said. That was interesting. And bloody terrifying. He almost didn't want to ask – the idea that he'd been living on top of and keeping his stuff in some kind of huge, ancient Tevinter superweapon for most of his life was rather unnerving. Even so, he couldn't help being curious. Varric was a storyteller at heart, and this kind of weird, esoteric, magical shit was great for stories. Even if he never ended up telling the truth of how he'd learned what he knew, he could always insert it somewhere else appropriate, or use it as inspiration for other epic tales.

"Like what?" he asked cautiously.

"Er..." Merrill looked thoughtful. "Well, I mean... a lot of the knowledge of how it works has been lost since the decline of the Imperium. Anders knows a few things about it, so Justice must as well, but he's never really explained it to me in detail. I do know that there are channels all through the Undercity, and in some other places, that once carried sacrificial blood from all over the city down to a central chamber, deep underground." She looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I don't think that's what Justice is interested in, though – blood magic was only a part of the network of... umm... I'm not really sure how to explain it, since I don't understand so much of it myself. Ley lines are involved – those are channels along which power flows. They're all over the world, but Kirkwall is on a major confluence and I think some of them are even artificial..."

Merrill was babbling like she did sometimes, and while she was being rather clearer than Justice had been, it was still all Varric could do to follow what she was saying and keep it reasonably together in his mind.

"Where these lines intersect, the flows of power along them can be manipulated," Merrill continued. "Like right here – this is a node, and Justice is altering how the energy here is directed around, to set it up to flow like he wants it to."

"And are there other reservoirs he's going to tap into?" Varric asked, wondering what the likelihood was of another catastrophic magical explosion that would trade minimal temporary benefit for a demonic invasion.

"Maybe," Merrill said doubtfully. "It's been so long since anyone used this... I think most of what was left was probably vented in that first big shock. But there are still dregs left around the network, and part of what Justice is doing is drawing them in to power his trap. He'll set it off in the central chamber, where the channels all flow to."

"I thought he only needed blood magic to keep Hawke alive when we spring the trap," Varric said uneasily.

"Right!" Merrill said hastily. "The central chamber is also the hub of the network. The biggest node is there – that's where we're going."

Varric rubbed his forehead as he watched Justice complete his sigil. This was some heavy shit.

"You know what you're doing, right?" he asked Justice as the spirit waved them onward. Justice glared at him, but Varric tried not to take it too personally. Justice glared at everyone. He was somewhat like Hawke in that sense, though Hawke's default facial expression was more of a... _hmmm_... a scowl. Yes, that fit.

"I do," the spirit said shortly. "You need not fear, Varric. Not yet."

Well, wasn't _that_ comforting. "When need I fear?" Varric asked, somehow managing to keep his voice jovial.

"I will let you know when."

"Wonderful," Varric said in a slightly higher-pitched voice than normal.

"Justice is such a considerate guy, isn't he?" Eingana commented wryly behind him, having listened to the exchange with a grim smile. Varric snorted.

Ahead of them, Justice came to an abrupt halt, and for a moment Varric wondered if they'd somehow managed to offend the volatile spirit. He turned around, eyes blazing, raising his staff. Instinctively, Varric ducked.

"Look to your defenses!" Justice called. "Undead approach!"

_Oh_, Varric thought with bizarre relief. _Just more corpses? That's alright, then_. He unholstered Bianca from his back and deployed her as he turned around. _Never thought those words would pass through my mind in that order_.

The hissing and screeching of possessed corpses soon became audible. Reaver growled threateningly into the darkness; on either side of him, Fenris and Eingana readied their various blades. The surly elf handed the lantern he carried back to Varric, who took it and raised it as high as he could to shed some light into the gloom. Justice's and Merrill's staves were lit, but their combined glow barely penetrated the wall of blackness before them.

Abruptly, shambling undead burst into visibility scant meters from Eingana and Fenris. Both attacked at once, hacking the undead to pieces before they could raise their crude weapons.

"Fireball!" Merrill yelled in warning, and Fenris and Eingana flattened themselves against the walls of the corridor. Merrill launched her fireball between them into the darkness beyond, where it illuminated a wall of zombies as it splashed against them. An unholy chorus of pained wails arose as the undead burned, staggering to their knees, against the walls and each other.

The flickering light of the flaming corpses suddenly brightened, and otherworldly roars shook dust from the ceiling. Reaver barked and jumped around, eager to attack. Fenris and Eingana eyed the indistinct host of demonic forces warily.

"Was that Hawke?" Varric asked, fingers flexing on the trigger of his crossbow. In his experience, if the warrior knew where he was, he would likely move too fast for Bianca to be able to pin him against the wall in a non-fatal manner.

"Rage demons," Justice said in disgust. He spun his staff in a whirl of blue fire before him as he advanced. "Call the dog back so it does not injure itself. I will deal with them."

"You're kidding, right?" Varric said incredulously. "I can't control that thing. It's like a dog version of Hawke."

"Reaver!" Eingana called as the bloodthirsty Mabari hound made to charge forward. The dog looked back at her and whined, but danced back to where she stood with Fenris, Varric, and Merrill.

"If I tell you to run, do it," Justice commanded as he strode past them. He raised his hands, his staff alight with energy. Ahead of him, two rage demons pushed amorphously through the charred and disintegrating corpses. Behind them, an eerie violet glow flashed once or twice, and the resonant groans of shades echoed out to them.

"Hawke is summoning demons," Merrill announced, unnecessarily.

"Thanks, Daisy," Varric remarked. "It's good to know you're on top of the situation."

Merrill beamed at him.

Justice gestured forcefully and a wall of azure fire rolled out from him, blackening the walls and flashing the remnants of the undead into dust in an instant. The rage demons were pushed backwards, contorting and growling as they were shriveled and consumed by the magic, but inevitably they too succumbed.

Justice lowered his staff, but held it ready to attack again, flames dancing along its length. A moment passed, and Varric had time to start wondering if that was it before a howling torrent of shades whirled out of the darkness at Justice. He swept his staff before him, washing them away with radiant blue fury. Varric couldn't help being impressed by the spirit's sheer imperturbable power.

Justice waited a moment more, and then he seemed to stiffen.

"Merrill," he said.

The elf started upon hearing her name. She ran to his side. "What is it?"

"There is one more node between here and the nexus. Can you tell where it is?" Justice asked intently, his fiery gaze never wavering from the ominously still and silent darkness.

Merrill bit her lip and closed her eyes. "Yes, I think so," she answered after a moment.

"Do you know the sigil I have inscribed on this node?"

Merrill hesitated, and then ran back several paces to where Justice had traced his glyph in the dirt. After examining it carefully for a few moments, she called out "Yes, I know it."

"Replicate it exactly at the next node," Justice said, still without turning, and Merrill looked up in alarm. "Then proceed to the nexus. I will meet you there."

"What?" Varric said as he suddenly realized what the spirit meant. "You can't mean to... is Hawke coming? What's this about?"

"He will be here in moments," Justice said shortly. "I will hold him off and lead him to you. There is no way for us all to reach the nexus before he catches up to us. Go at once."

Fenris was frowning suspiciously, and Merrill looked afraid. Varric could hardly argue with the resounding tone of absolute command in the spirit's voice, but the situation didn't sit well with him either. At all. "Are you sure we shouldn't-" he began.

"Justice," Eingana cut in, "perhaps I should stay as well. You will need time to set up the final trap at this nexus, won't you?"

Justice paused, his brow furrowed in anger, or concentration. "Yes," he admitted.

"Then you and I will stay. Once we lure Hawke close to where he needs to be, I will keep him busy for the last few moments."

Justice stared at her for a moment, and then nodded once, grudgingly. "Very well. Thank you, Commander."

"Eingana," Merrill whispered fearfully, "you can't-"

Eingana silenced her with a look. "Get going, Merrill. You still have one more thing to do between here and the nexus, don't you?"

Merrill bit her lip and looked down at her feet, but she nodded. She hesitated, then ran up to Eingana and threw her arms around the startled Warden-Commander.

"Creators watch over you," she whispered, and Eingana stroked Merrill's hair reassuringly. She glanced at Fenris over Merrill's shoulder.

"Protect her, please?" Eingana asked, and Fenris nodded with a grimace, half amused and half exasperated.

"Good luck," Varric said solemnly as Merrill started off down the corridor and Fenris followed. Eingana nodded and gestured for him to go as well, and Varric turned to obey.

Before he could complete his motion, the entire corridor shook violently, and Varric only remained upright because he happened to be near the wall. As it was, he was still thrown against it hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Reaver barked his agitation, refusing to abandon Eingana even as she pleaded with him to follow Merrill and Fenris.

A shockwave of rippling force, shoving a front of dust and other detritus before it, screamed down the corridor from the darkness in the direction they had come. Varric shielded his face with his arm as he was pelted with dust, gravel and scraps of wood. The wail of noise the wave created couldn't quite drown out the cacophony of groaning and howling that indicated a horde of angry demons was near. Varric, still reorienting himself, felt a painful vibration in his chest and teeth.

Then Michael Hawke charged out of the darkness, riding a tide of crimson magic, shades, and rage demons, bellowing his fury as he raised his blade. His eyes were red obsidian, and his very skin seemed to pulse with vile magic.

"RUN, VARRIC!" Justice thundered, and Varric scrambled to do as he was told. He feared desperately for Anders's and Eingana's lives, but he was utterly without ideas as to what he could do but obey and hope for a miracle.

Varric fled as red and blue magic collided behind him with catastrophic force; blades clashed, the dog barked, and demons howled. Varric refrained from looking back, telling himself it was because he needed to see the others to catch up with them, but mostly because he was terrified of what he might witness.

**ασυνέχεια**

Making their cautious way through the battered streets and hexes of Lowtown, barely lit by the last vestiges of daylight as the sun drifted below the horizon, Cullen and Wynne were appalled by the destruction that had occurred. The city hadn't been completely ruined, but more than a few of its buildings were in flames, and the fires would easily spread with the chilly wind if left unchecked. Many structures had already burned to ashes by the time the shocked Knight-Captain and his charge made their way past in horrified silence.

They saw hardly anyone alive – just a few people trying to put the fires out, and not nearly enough. Other survivors had apparently fled. They did, however, see a great many corpses, some of which appeared to have been reanimated by demonic possession and slain again – multiple times. Others had clearly been twisted and warped into abominations before their deaths. The templars and city guard had been doing their work, it seemed.

The more powerful demons who must have caused such devastation appeared to have moved on or been slain. Shades still wandered the streets here and there, made obvious by their resonant groans, and wisps drifted aimlessly everywhere, congregating at intersections. Incredibly, however, Cullen and Wynne were attacked only twice, and in both cases the initial assailant was a rage demon. Nearby shades soon joined in each time, apparently emboldened by the fiery creatures' reckless assault. Cullen's prowess with his blade and shield, combined with Wynne's powerful magic, made short work of the demons. Other roaming spirits fled at the sight of them, perhaps sensing the power about one or both of the travelers.

Twice, Cullen and Wynne came across unexpected bastions of survivors, clustered together and protecting themselves through various means. The first of these, interestingly, turned out to be the elven alienage.

"That's odd," Cullen muttered at one point as they picked their way down a deserted street and around a shattered wagon, the debris charred and stained with blood. The horses that had been pulling it lay a short distance away, horrifically mutilated and mercifully dead. There was no sign of the passengers; they had apparently either fled or been possessed.

"What?" Wynne asked.

Cullen gestured upwards. Beyond the battered but intact slum houses on the right-hand side of the street, the spreading emerald foliage of the elven vhenadahl was visible as a looming silhouette against the twilit sky.

"No obvious damage to the elves' tree, and no smoke either," Cullen said. "And... I sense magic in that direction."

Wynne looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "I as well," she said. "Do you have an explanation?"

"The elves in Kirkwall are known to be sympathetic towards apostates," Cullen explained with a tinge of disapproval in his voice. "They have harboured a number of them over the years, and they may still." He paused. "One of the Champion's elven companions lives in the alienage. She is Dalish, exiled from her clan. I have strong reason to believe she is a mage, trained in their old ways."

They had reached a crossroads. The intersecting road led west into the alienage. A heavy gate had been closed and barred across it, and flickering enchantments were clearly visible, curling around the wrought-iron bars like curious fingers. Cullen and Wynne paused as if by unspoken agreement, staring down the road. The gathering darkness made it difficult to see much past the gate; there were a few distant flickers of lantern light visible in the sunken alienage, but no angry glow of uncontrolled fire. The vhenadahl rose out of the shadows of the surrounding buildings and spread to hover over the alienage like a protective parent. Its vast canopy was largely still, rustling only gently in the breeze.

"Before I left the city, I received reports of riots in the alienage," Cullen said. "There was some mention of 'uncontrolled magic' – explosions, misfired spells and the like – but few details. I was told the city guard investigated, but I know nothing else."

"Should we investigate?" Wynne asked.

Cullen's brow pinched. "We really should get to the Hawke estate," he said. "But Merrill – the Dalish elf – she knows him quite well, and she may know something about what is going on here. I wouldn't turn aside her help if it is available."

"Are you quite sure you aren't just interested in arresting her?" Wynne asked thinly.

Cullen waved his hand in annoyance. "Now is not the time for that. Even if it was my intention, the Champion has political connections enough to make apprehending one of his companions prohibitively impractical."

"I understand," Wynne said with a slight smile. "Still, seeing as how these elves clearly have unsanctioned magic at their disposal, and given the rather obvious fact of your membership in the Templar Order, perhaps it would best if you hang back while I approach the gate myself."

Cullen nodded. The Sword of Mercy emblazoned on his armour was fairly unmistakable, after all. He moved over to one side of the street and lingered unobtrusively in the shadows while Wynne drew near the enchanted gate. She reached out with her hand as if to touch it; the flickering magic flared warningly, and Wynne desisted.

"Hello?" she called into the gloom. "Elves of Kirkwall, can you hear me? I mean you no harm."

A quiet moment passed in eerie stillness, in which all Cullen could hear was the whisper of the breeze down the empty streets and far-off crackling of uncontrolled fires. Kirkwall had never been so silent. It made him uneasy.

Then indistinct figures appeared in the shadows beyond the gate. Three elves became visible as they approached; two hung back with bows drawn and arrows nocked, aiming directly at Wynne's heart. The third, a dark-skinned elven women dressed in thin, frayed garments, eyed the mage suspiciously as she neared the gate.

"Who are you?" the elf asked. "What do you want?"

"My name is Wynne," Wynne said calmly. "I am a senior enchanter of the College of Magi, in Cumberland. I am looking for a Dalish elf, Merrill."

The elf frowned. "A senior enchanter? Have you come to deal with the demons?"

Wynne hesitated. "That is one reason I have come," she said. "Do you know Merrill? Is she here?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "You know what Merrill is?"

"Yes," Wynne said simply. "She is in no danger from me."

"She is not here." The woman turned and began to walk back into the shadowed alienage. The two archers beyond her lowered their weapons and made to retreat as well.

"Wait!" Wynne called, and the elf paused without turning around.

"I am a skilled healer," Wynne said. "Do you need help? Is there anything I can do for you?"

The elf twisted around to stare at her for a long moment, as if unsure whether Wynne's offer was sincere. Then she turned to confer with her companions quietly.

After a few moments of whispered conversation, one of the elven archers nodded and said something in an undertone to the woman. Their hands touched briefly, and then the two archers melted away into the gloom. The woman returned to the gate.

"Thank you for your offer, enchanter, but we can take care of ourselves," she said.

Wynne nodded.

"My name is Angela. Please, do what you can to rid the city of these demons," the elf continued. "And if you see any elves, out in the streets, or anywhere, tell them..."

She paused, and Cullen thought he saw a flicker of sadness, or fear – or both – cross her delicate brown face.

"Tell them it is safe to come home," Angela whispered, and she turned and hurried into the darkness.

Wynne sighed and turned to walk back to the intersecting street. Cullen joined her as she passed him, and they continued their journey in silence.

Some time later, after fending off a feeble attack by a few wisps, a din of voices reached the cautious travelers from a large, intact building up ahead. Warm, welcoming light spilled from its windows on three storeys, and the silhouettes of many figures could be seen moving around inside. A small group of people were clustered around the door, slightly ajar, from which the noise of many voices emanated. The people were shrouded in the darkness between the light of the windows; all that could be distinguished among them was that some were dwarves.

A massive, grotesque sculpture dominated the building's façade. Wynne eyed it in bemusement, but frowned in distaste once she realized what it was supposed to be.

"The Hanged Man," Cullen commented, and Wynne's eyebrows shot up.

"Really," she said dryly. "I would never have guessed."

"It is the epicenter of Lowtown," Cullen told her. "I wish I could say I was surprised that it's still doing business during a demonic invasion, but... that's Kirkwall."

"Oi, you!" someone yelled at them from among the figures clustered around the door, and the others turned in a flurry of motion and whispering steel. Cullen and Wynne came to a surprised halt as they suddenly found themselves facing a motley array of swords, axes, and nocked bows. Cullen's hand drifted down to rest on the hilt of his sword. He made to glance behind him as a shuffling footstep alerted him to someone at his back, but he froze at the gentle kiss of a cold, sharp blade against his neck.

"Not another move," a rough voice hissed in his ear.

Cullen's face curdled. He glanced at Wynne out of the corner of his eye. She was standing with her hands folded in front of her, perfectly calm; she, too, had a knife to her throat. Wynne's staff was clutched in the hands of a burly man in mismatched armour with a grizzled beard and a disheveled look about him.

Others surrounded them on all sides – men and women, humans and dwarves, barely visible in the gloom. They had appeared so suddenly and silently that Cullen couldn't help being impressed. Lowtowners were a different sort of fighter than templars or highborn warriors. They were certainly dangerous and capable folk, but he'd never heard of them gathering in such numbers without fighting amongst themselves. No doubt the threat posed by the demons had something to do with this.

"'Oo are you?" called the same voice from near the entrance to the Hanged Man. Cullen couldn't tell who had spoken; the light from the tavern's windows was too inadequate and there were simply too many people all around him.

"Lower your weapons," Cullen said, trying to keep the annoyance from colouring his voice. "We mean you no harm."

He could have forgiven suspicion towards an unknown mage at a time like this, but could they not see the blatant Sword of Mercy on his breastplate? Did they think templars routinely went for night-time strolls with maleficarum?

"Answer 'is question, first," said another voice, female this time.

"I am Knight-Captain Cullen of the Templar Order," Cullen said frostily, "and if I so chose, I could have every single one of you beheaded for accosting me in this manner. Now, _lower your weapons._" Maker, but he was reminding himself of Meredith.

A ripple of subtle motion and hissed communication passed through the people around them at his words. The blade lifted from his neck, and its owner appeared in front of him to look at him with dark eyes that widened in recognition

"So you are," the man said uncomfortably, and the atmosphere relaxed noticeably as weapons were lowered all around. He was a Lowtowner, all right – probably a thug of one of the numerous gangs, or the Coterie – but he knew the emblem of the Templar Order. His face twisted with contrition as he sheathed his blade.

"Er... sorry about that, Knight-Captain," the man muttered. "Can't be too careful right now, what with... the demons, and all." He coughed into his hand.

Cullen relented and softened his frigid glare. "I understand," he said. "I will overlook the indiscretion... this time."

The man looked relieved and nodded his thanks.

"'Oo's the mage?" someone demanded, and Cullen glanced over to see that Wynne was still being held at knife-point. Her face betrayed no emotion whatsoever, but Cullen caught a flicker of fear in her eyes as she looked to him. Nevertheless, Wynne's voice was steady and bland when she answered. "I can speak for myself. My name is Wynne, and I am a senior enchanter of the College of Magi."

It was "senior enchanter" that did it. The woman holding her blade to Wynne's throat withdrew it at once, and the man who held her staff handed it back to her with apologetic deference. Whether because of Meredith's propaganda or because they recognized the genuine threat that renegade mages regularly posed to the inhabitants of Kirkwall, these people tended to default to suspicion and mistrust when faced with unfamiliar mages. Particularly in the midst of an incursion from the spirit world. A mage of the Circle, however, was a different matter. One of such lofty rank appearing in the city during a crisis, and accompanied by a high-ranking templar no less, could only be a good sign.

No doubt many of them had already lost friends or loved ones to demons or abominations, Cullen thought grimly, and were eager for assistance from the experts. Whispers rustled in a quiet clamour around them.

"Senior Enchanter?" someone muttered. "Isn't that who-"

"She's still inside," another voice replied, barely discernible over the rustle of voices and scraping footsteps. "Go get her."

The door to the Hanged Man slid open a notch and a dark shape slipped inside.

"What do you know about what's going on here?" Cullen asked to the crowd at large, and after a moment the man who had held the knife on him answered.

"Demons 'a been attacking all over the place for a few days, now, 'aven't they?" he said, scratching his chin. "More and more of them as it went on, and bigger ones, too. The city guards an' the templars 'a been cracking down on it pretty good, mostly. Kept 'em under control. Until a little while ago, at least." He looked at Cullen curiously. "You're the Knight-Captain, an' all... shouldn't you know about this?"

"I have been away," Cullen said curtly. "The situation was not so dire when I departed the city this morning."

The man nodded. "Right. Well, a while ago the guards came down an' said everyone should evacuate to the Viscount's Keep up in Hightown, right." He sneered. "A few went. Most of us said, we's can defend ourselves just fine down 'ere without all them nobles spitting on us and trying to feed us to the demons so's they can save their jewels an' their fancy clothes."

Cullen suppressed an urge to roll his eyes, but the man had a point. He wondered how the nobility in Hightown had reacted to the idea that the residents of Lowtown and Darktown were to take shelter with them in the Keep. Badly, probably.

"The guards said fine, and some templars stayed down here with us to 'elp us with the nasty magic, and what," the man continued. "Quite a few 'a us Lowtowners are 'oled up here in the 'Anged Man... everyone who could fit, at least... the elves stayed in the alienage an' some other people took their chances on their own..." He shrugged. "'Aven't heard from them in a while, though."

"Thank you," said Cullen. He wondered if it would be worthwhile checking in with the templars stationed down here, but he quickly decided that he and Wynne had best get moving as soon as they could. It was good to know that the Lowtowners had united to protect their own, at least for now. The population of the city slums couldn't stay barricaded in one tavern for long.

"Hey, so do you know when this'll be done?" someone else nearby asked Cullen, as if hearing his thoughts. "We can't do like this forever. We've lost a lot of people to demons already." She eyed Wynne. "You're 'ere to fix this, ain't you?"

Her voice was tinged with fear, and Cullen wished there was something else he or Wynne could say that was both reassuring and true.

"I will do what I can," Wynne said gently, and the Lowtowner woman smiled weakly, plainly not really reassured.

"We must move on," Cullen said to Wynne, and she turned to him. "We may not have much time before-"

"Enchanter! Senior Enchanter!" a new voice yelled, feminine and familiar.

Cullen turned to see the crowd of Lowtowners before the Hanged Man parting, and light spearing into the night as the door was pushed open and a woman emerged. Cullen couldn't determine who the voluptuous figure belonged to at first, but he certainly knew her voice, and – _Maker_, those hips-

"Isabela," he said in surprise as he recognized her. She was one of Hawke's companions, the "pirate whore" Aveline had mentioned so distastefully earlier that day while enumerating those who knew of the Champion's condition. Isabela had once been a raider captain of the eastern seas, he remembered, until she had become embroiled in the qunari conflict by stealing their sacred relic. Whether she was still a "raider" in the most commonly intended sense of the word, Cullen neither knew nor cared to find out.

"Hello again, Ser Cullen," Isabela purred to him as she approached, and Cullen couldn't help the flush that crept up his neck at her sultry tone, the sensual pout of her lips, and the way her eyes flitted down his armoured body. What could she possibly be looking at? He was covered from neck to toe in heavy plate. But Isabela had a way of looking at Cullen like she could see right through his armour, both literal and figurative, and of implying with her eyes and lips alone that she liked what she saw. A lot.

"Isabela?" Wynne said incredulously, and Cullen turned to her, surprised. "Isabela, is that you?"

Isabela embraced Wynne warmly as she reached her, hugging the elderly mage like an old friend. Around them, the crowd of Lowtowners protecting the tavern began to disperse back into the shadows.

"Wynne!" Isabela greeted with enthusiasm. "I didn't think you'd remember me."

"How could I possibly forget?" Wynne muttered as she patted Isabela on the back somewhat gingerly. "What are you doing here, my dear?"

"Looking for you," Isabela said as they broke apart. "I was getting a bit concerned. You were due at the Hawke estate some time ago."

Wynne looked surprised, and glanced at Cullen.

"Isabela is one of the Champion's companions," Cullen explained, and understanding dawned on Wynne's face. She nodded.

"We've had some... delays," Wynne said. "I was not expecting the situation to have deteriorated quite so severely _before_ I arrived."

Isabela made a pained grimace. "I don't think anybody was." Her eyes flicked to Cullen, and though a teasing smile curved her lips, the expression didn't reach her eyes.

"You're a lucky lady, Wynne. I didn't know you'd be accompanied by our friend here, the dashing Knight-Captain."

Cullen coughed into his gauntleted hand. "Er, right. I escorted the enchanter into the city from the coastal road, at Knight-Commander Meredith's request."

"Ah," Isabela said, and Cullen suddenly realized why she was suspicious.

"I know about the Champion," he said quietly, and Isabela raised her eyebrows sharply. "Guard-Captain Aveline explained the situation to me before I departed to meet Enchanter Wynne. I am the only templar who knows, at present."

"I see," Isabela said softly. "I suppose you would have gone on with Wynne to the estate and found out anyway, and then things would have gotten rather... sticky."

"Quite," Cullen said, trying not to squirm too obviously at the innuendo in Isabela's tone when she voiced the word _sticky_. _For Andraste's sake, get a hold of yourself, man_, he chided himself.

"Well, I don't doubt that we could use a man like you, Ser Cullen," Isabela said with a smile – friendlier this time – and a salacious wink, which put him at ease not in the slightest. The pirate gestured with her head in the general direction of the massive marble staircase that led up into the city's aristocratic heights. "We really should get going," she added. "But be on your guard – there are a _lot_ more demons in Hightown."

"Oh?" Wynne asked curiously. "How did you get through them to get down here?"

A curving band of light slowly wrapped its way up her staff, providing a soft illumination for them to see their way.

"Very carefully," Isabela answered with a wry smirk. She led them towards and down the wide set of carved stone stairs that descended into the Lowtown bazaar. The vast market was empty, not unusual for this time of night, but many of its stalls were smashed, and a few disfigured corpses were visible at the fringes of Wynne's enchanted illumination. Cullen carefully avoided looking at them too closely.

He cleared his throat. "What is the situation at the Hawke estate, Isabela?" Cullen asked quietly. "I was told the Champion is securely confined. Is that still-?"

Isabela threw him a look that made Cullen fall silent in sudden anxiety. Her tense expression could mean only one thing, and his blood ran cold as her words confirmed it a moment later.

"Right," Isabela said. "I guess there's no way you could have found out. Well, are you guys ever behind. No, he isn't – Hawke escaped. Hours and hours ago."

"Oh, dear," Wynne whispered. "And... where is he now?"

Isabela shook her head somberly. "That I don't know. Anders and Eingana were there, and Varric and Merrill stayed over last night to help them keep an eye on Hawke. I don't know how he got out, but he did – he apparently thrashed them all and then drove them into the cellars to chase them around with undead he summoned."

Cullen cursed under his breath and whispered a prayer to the Maker, and Wynne let out a horrified gasp. Isabela shivered as she continued. "The mansion's cellars connect to the Undercity. I went up to Hightown to check in, and Fenris showed up too, but when we went inside there was nobody there. There were signs of a struggle... Hawke's manacles broken and ripped apart... and then corpses came out of the cellar and attacked us."

"Andraste guide us," Cullen muttered. "How many were there?"

"Quite a few, but we got them all," Isabela told him. "All the ones up there, anyway. Hawke's manservant came back from shopping with his boy – seriously – and Fenris suggested they go up to the Keep, which they did. Fenris and I though, we went down into the cellars to look for the others. We found them, but Hawke attacked us."

Isabela's eyes were distant, her usual glib charm entirely absent. Cullen felt a surge of concern for the flirtatious pirate. It was apparent that Isabela was not severely injured, but something had clearly shaken her in the cellars beneath Hawke's mansion.

"He was... crazy, gone... it was hardly him at all. He kept saying that he wasn't possessed, and the demon or whatever it is had just... 'opened his eyes.'" Isabela shuddered, remembering. "He had such powerful magic, and he almost killed both of us – hardly wearing any armour at all, just his pants." A bitter smile crossed her face briefly. "Every time Hawke gets injured when he's like that, it just makes him stronger."

She lapsed into silence. They rounded a partially collapsed building with several destroyed market stalls in pieces around its edges. As they neared its entrance, a shattered doorway that gaped brokenly, an awful stench wafted out from within. A sullen red glow from a mound of burning bodies briefly mingled with Wynne's clean white staff-light. Cullen couldn't stop himself from covering his nose as bile rose in his throat. The reek became more bearable as they passed farther from the building and mounted the base of the immense staircase.

Isabela was still quiet.

"But you survived," Cullen prompted gently, not wanting to force Isabela to relive what had clearly been a traumatic experience, but needing to know what had happened all the same.

The pirate nodded. "The others showed up just in time to stop Hawke from killing Fenris and I," she said. "Hawke ran back into the cellars, but everyone else was accounted for and they were fine the last time I saw them."

"Where are they now?" Wynne asked.

"They went after Hawke," Isabela said grimly. "Jus – er, Anders had some plan to lure him over a magical confluence, or something. That part made hardly any sense to me, but he was pretty convinced it would work. The others all went with him to help, and I volunteered to wait up in the mansion for you. They told me to fill you in on the relevant details and wait for word."

"And are those all the relevant details?" Cullen asked.

"Not quite," Isabela replied. "There are some notes at the estate Anders and Eingana made on the spirit that's got Hawke that they wanted Wynne to look at." She eyed the enchanter in question. "Eingana said you'd know what to do once you saw them."

Wynne nodded gravely. "I only hope that I do," she said. "And have you heard from them since?"

Isabela shook her head. "I think we're going to have to go down into the cellars after them," she said. "But I have no idea how we'll find them. J- Anders said something about a nexus, and a network of lines..."

"I believe I will be able to find them," Wynne said. "I do not have much experience with psychometric magic, but I am familiar with the theory."

Isabela looked relieved and frightened at once. "Well, that's good," she said. "I don't much like the thought of going into those tunnels again, but..."

Her voice trailed off, and then she asked in a small, quiet voice that shocked Cullen with its sheer vulnerability, "Do you think you can save him, Wynne?"

The elderly mage didn't need to ask who she meant. "I don't know, my dear," she said softly. "If the entity is what I think it is, then I believe I can, but it will be difficult, and very dangerous. I will need help... from Anders, in particular. I shudder to think of how all this may be affecting him."

Cullen was intensely curious about what apparently unique quality Anders possessed that made him so important, but it was of little consequence at the moment. He certainly felt some sympathy for the man; though he was a dangerous apostate and a known anti-Circle radical, his lover, who just happened to also be the Champion of Kirkwall, was possessed and maddened by the creature inside him. Cullen would not wish such heartache on anyone. Even now, with Wynne's help, Michael Hawke's fate remained uncertain.

However this crisis ended, Cullen dearly hoped that the demonic emergence would end with it. Kirkwall had already lost so much, and rebuilding would take time – not to mention the spiritual toll on the survivors, and the escalating fury Meredith no doubt had in store for the downtrodden Circle.

No use thinking about all that now. Cullen steeled himself for a long climb and a long descent, and prayed to the Maker that they would arrive in time.

**Ω**


	21. Praxis

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Praxis"**

Eingana couldn't say how many shades and rage demons she'd sliced apart with her blades, but she was racking them up at a more-or-less constant rate. For perhaps the thousandth time since she'd been drawn into this whole mess, the Warden-Commander said a prayer of thanks in her mind to the enchantress at Vigil's Keep who had imbued her longsword with keenness and preternatural force. The glittering blade flashed through shades as if they were smoke, dissolving them into degenerate matter in an instant. The amorphous, magma-like bodies of the rage demons took a bit more effort, but they too withered and cracked into ashy tar upon the point of her blade. Her mundane longsword, while deadly sharp and masterfully crafted, was more useful to fend off blows than to slay opponents such as these.

Fending off blows, as it turned out, was not a trivial matter. The cramped, musty corridors of Darktown were a long way from ideal conditions for close quarters combat, particularly when said combat involved enraged demons.

There was no use complaining, however. At least she had Reaver to protect her back. The Mabari hound was a vicious warrior, just like his master, and utterly unafraid of the demons he tore apart with teeth and claws even as they inflicted what must have been painful slashes and burns on his thick, furry skin. The snarling and barking at her back was like a wistful taste of home. Eingana found herself missing her own faithful Mabari, off siring puppies in Denerim. At least _he_ was having fun.

Ahead of her, Justice was engaged with Hawke, using his staff to fight off the warrior's savage assault with his greatsword. Chaotic magic swirled around them, red and blue, colliding and neutralizing with thunderous force. Eingana tried to keep the two combatants in sight, but she couldn't spare much attention from the demons that surrounded her and continually attempted to drain her psyche of vital force. Eingana did note with relief that Justice seemed to be trying to draw Hawke gradually forwards, giving fractions more ground than he took, leading the possessed warrior towards the nexus and the trap that was their last chance. Eingana kept pace with him as best she could.

The demons seemed inclined to avoid Justice rather than go at him from behind, likely at the behest of their otherworldly master. No doubt Hawke wanted the pleasure of combat and the kill for himself. Unfortunately, while that left Justice free to give his full attention to fighting Hawke, it also meant Eingana and Reaver had to fend for themselves amidst a horde of angry spirits that inevitably went for them instead.

An eldritch purple glow flared behind Eingana, catching her attention, and she turned around with her arm outstretched behind her, allowing her enchanted blade to pass through a handful of shades and end them all in a moment. Down the corridor, towards the nexus, a desire demon was approaching, parting the wall of demons with an imperious gesture, curvaceous body swaying hypnotically. The light came from the eerie fire atop the creature's head, and from its radiant eyes. Eingana found herself momentarily hesitating, drawn in to that alluring, beautiful gaze. She gave herself a shake and looked away, dodging a rage demon's lunge just in time. Eingana plunged both blades into the hulking mass, yanking them out again as the demon howled its demise and disintegrated into denatured char.

Reaver let out a furious growl and leapt at the desire demon as it glided forward, clawed hands gesturing a spell. The Mabari's teeth easily found the demon's throat, and the purple fire died almost at once as he tore into the fragile body. Eingana's relief at the demise of the powerful demon, however, was short-lived.

"REAVER!" bellowed a resonant voice from behind her, and Eingana turned, ducking under a shade's claws, to see Hawke glaring at his hound. Reaver cowered and made a whining noise.

Hawke had backed off from Justice, but the spirit was rolling his staff, preparing a powerful spell, and Hawke launched back into the fight in time to prevent the spirit from completing it.

"Obey me!" Hawke thundered even as he traded blows with Justice. "Obey your master!"

_Don't you dare, you bastard_, Eingana thought bitterly, not even sure if she meant Hawke or Reaver. In either case, it was too late. The dog's bark was almost reluctant, but he hardly hesitated before bounding through the twisting shades – which suddenly parted to allow him through – to his master's side.

Eingana heard Hawke yelling instructions to his hound, but she couldn't make them out over the howling of the demons around her as they closed in. Now her back was unprotected, and she had to work twice as hard just to stay alive. Eingana whirled with her blades extended, flashing ranks of shades into oblivion, but she couldn't sustain the motion without becoming dangerously disoriented.

Searching for the coolness and clear head that had carried her through uncountable battles, from the Arl of Denerim's estate on her ill-fated wedding day to multiple high dragons, pride demons, and darkspawn broodmothers, Eingana fought her way to the nearest wall and backed against it. Now there she was only being assaulted from three sides, which, if not much of an improvement, was certainly nothing to complain about.

Despite the moderate reprieve, Eingana found herself being pushed further and further along the corridor, away from Justice and Hawke, by the fanatical press of the demons. Undead began reappearing among their ranks, the last batch of corpses eradicated by Justice having been replenished as others finally made their shambling way to the site of the battle.

Some of the corpses were horrifically mutated, sporting extra limbs or massively misshapen clubs of muscle and bone. Others were bloated with vile magic in the manner of abominations, or were clad in ancient, corroded heavy plate armour. Eingana recognized some of these gross disfigurations of the dead by animating spirits as having classifications all their own – unholy beasts the like of which she'd seen in the Circle Tower during the Blight and one or two other remote, ruined places. Briefly, she spotted the violet fire of at least one more desire demon amongst the horde, but Eingana couldn't afford to try to find it again with the more immediate danger right in front of her.

Eingana kept up her hacking and slashing with the precision and expertise of a seasoned warrior as the demons and undead threw themselves against her, but every step she was forced backwards was another step between her and Justice. The mage's battle with Hawke was still visible and audible through the morass of spirits simply by the noise and spectacle it created – Hawke's red magic had died down, but Justice's Fade blue was as obvious and riotous as ever. It was only a matter of time, however, before they were separated beyond any possibility of reunion. Not only that, but Eingana's strength was flagging. She had been tired already from battling undead earlier, and the potent stamina draughts she'd downed in Anders's laboratory wouldn't last forever.

Eingana felt the first twinges of panic beginning to creep up on her, but she forced them down. Merrill, Fenris, and Varric were ahead of her somewhere, and Maker willing, Wynne was on her way. The nexus couldn't be much farther – reaching it was her only hope.

Soon after she lost sight of Justice and Hawke completely, Eingana came to a decision. There was no point trying to hold back the flood of demons here by herself. She felt uneasy about abandoning Justice and merely hoping that he would make it to the nexus on his own, but she had little choice. If she perished under a tide of demons here, alone, she would be of no help to anyone, least of all Anders and the spirit he hosted.

Checking behind her to make sure it was relatively clear, Eingana turned tail and fled, making for the nexus. The shades and rage demons had largely been concentrated closer to Hawke, and the staggering undead hadn't yet had time to get around her. The way was clear but for a few stray shades, which Eingana dispatched as she raced past them. The demons behind her howled and gave chase.

Eingana ran as fast as she dared, barely able to see where she was going. Only the ethereal glow of the demonic forces pursuing her and the occasional pitiful torch provided any illumination at all. She stumbled a few times and nearly fell; if she had, it would undoubtedly have been her final mistake.

Then there was something else – a faint, washed-out glow up ahead. It appeared to be concentrated at a spot on the floor a dozen or so paces ahead. As she approached, Eingana made out more and more detail, enough to arouse her curiosity. Having put all her effort into running and having thereby gained some distance from the demons, she slowed down somewhat to investigate.

A smile crossed Eingana's face as she realized what the light source was. It was a sigil drawn in the dust, shimmering softly with blue radiance that flickered as if pale fire shone behind it. The sigil was identical to the one Eingana had left behind mere minutes ago, where Hawke had caught up to them. This could be nothing but the final node between there and the nexus, inscribed as needed by Merrill. And glowing – why was it glowing? The other hadn't been doing that. Perhaps it was a sign that the flows of energy along Kirkwall's ancient channels were aligned as needed, and awaited only Justice's final tweak to ignite the trap. They were so close, and the nexus surely couldn't be much farther ahead.

Eingana redoubled her flight as the demons began to catch up. Rage demons hurled gobs of fiery matter at her, which Eingana was only barely able to dodge by listening for the rush of noise they produced as they sailed through the air towards her back. It was a flimsy technique to rely on, but Eingana couldn't afford to turn around and look. Only once did a missile actually hit her, splashing painfully against the light plate that protected her back. The intensely heated metal of her armour burned her back continuously, and Eingana gasped and cried out in pain, but there was nothing much she could do but endure it and keep going.

Then icy cold magic washed past her, luckily petering out into a harmless, if uncomfortable chill without freezing her legs into solid, useless chunks. No doubt the desire demon, or perhaps an arcane horror, was trying to slow her down. Bizarrely, Eingana noted with giddy relief and a touch of smugness, the cone of icy particulates actually did more to help her than hinder her progress – the wash of supercooled air soothed the rage demon's heat on her armour and at least stopped its damaging burn, if not the pain of the damage already done.

Eingana's foot thudded against a slick of ice, likely moisture on the floor frozen by the magic. She skidded, heart suddenly racing with fear. Miraculously, the agile elf managed to stay on her feet, and kept running. She paid more attention to the floor, occasionally chancing a backward glance. The demons were gaining on her, getting frighteningly close. She dodged more gobbets of rage demon mucus and a few bolts of power from the more sophisticated magic-users. Eingana's legs burned and her lungs could barely gasp enough air into her battered body, but she kept running.

A reassuring blue-white glow gradually became visible ahead, and as Eingana advanced it became obvious that the light's source was around a corner. She could see the silhouette of the vertex at which the wall to her right ended, and around which the light crept. A flow of fresh air seemed to be drifting towards her from that direction, possibly indicating ventilation of some sort. The air rapidly grew cooler, and the cloying odour of dust and mould mercifully diminished.

"Merrill!" Eingana called, wasting precious breath but needing to know if the others were close. "Varric! Fenris!"

"Eingana?" a voice replied from up ahead – it sounded like Fenris, but further words were drowned out by the wailing demons as they closed in on her. Eingana felt a shade slash at her ankle, accompanied by a burst of weakness, and she barely kept ahead of the tide as she rounded the corner.

The tight, claustrophobic world of the dank corridor abruptly yawned into a vast openness. Eingana jetted into an apparently circular chamber so amazingly large that its remote depths were lost in gloom. The chamber's circumference was awash in the icy glow of a number of radiant crystal globes, each the size of a small building and wedged between the distant ceiling and mountainous, blocky pillars. Only two could be said to be near the entrance from which Eingana emerged, but both were easily a hundred paces away or more. Intricate carvings covered the pillars, but they were too far away for Eingana to make out details, and in any case she was more interested in escaping the demons.

The two nearby crystal globes shone like the moon, providing more than enough light for her to see her immediate surroundings, but not much else. Far away, more light globes were visible following the curve of the immense circular chamber, but their light was dim and cold. It seemed that recent use of this entrance had activated its adjacent globes the most intensely; the far-off globes grew dimmer the further around the chamber they were located, and at the diametric opposite there was only darkness.

The floor of the chamber sloped downwards like an amphitheater toward a central pit; the ceiling mirrored the design by dipping downwards, ultimately stretching down in a funnel shape in the middle of the space. Intricate traceries of lyrium and embedded glowing crystals covered the ceiling, providing additional illumination. Eingana also spotted designs and sigils carved into the floor here and there, but she didn't stop to examine them.

Ahead of her, in the center of the pit, the ceiling-funnel reached almost all the way down to a wide basin the size of the courtyard at Vigil's Keep. A circle of relatively short cylindrical pillars, unadorned, surrounded the basin. Each pillar held a crystal globe at its apex similar to the vast light sources around the chamber's edge, but much smaller. All of them were dark and caked with grime. A few ancient, crumbling benches set outside the circle provided places to sit, if rather dirty ones.

In its heyday, this chamber might have been magnificent. Eingana could only imagine what it would look like fully illuminated, cleaned, and free of demons.

Merrill and Varric stood between two of the pillars of the central circle, and it was them towards whom Eingana hurried as fast as her flagging stamina would allow. Fenris was nowhere in sight, but he must have been nearby – she'd heard his voice mere moments ago.

"Take out some demons for me, would you?" Eingana yelled. Varric was already lining up a shot with Bianca, and Merrill gesturing with her staff.

Fire exploded behind Eingana, creating a burst of warm light through her immediate surroundings that contrasted briefly with the cold blue of the crystal globes. Eingana saw Varric firing his crossbow and heard the whine of bolts passing near her. She pushed herself for one last surge of speed, determined to reach the center of the nexus alive.

Eingana risked a glance behind her, and was relieved to see that the demons had fallen behind. Many were thrashing about in flames as they died, pummeled by the furious conflagration Merrill had summoned to rain down on them. A desire demon with a crossbow bolt protruding from its horned head was overtaken by a wash of shades as it collapsed and vanished from sight.

A blue-white burst amid the demons threw their dissolving ranks into further chaos, and Eingana smiled as she saw a brief flash of gleaming steel. Fenris had ambushed the demons from the indistinct gloom of the immense chamber, scattering them and hacking a number of the slow-moving corpses into pieces.

Eingana turned back to face the central pit in time to come to a skidding, desperate halt. The stone directly ahead of her was cracking and bursting upwards. Mottled, lumpy hands were clawing their way free. Eingana readied her blades, heaving for breath, and began to circle around the site of emergence. There were at least two of the creatures – she counted three misshapen hands already, scrabbling at the jagged lip of their hole – and from the discolouration of the skin, they looked to be abominations.

Then came the brief tinkle of shattering glass, almost inaudible in the chaos of noises echoing throughout the chamber, and a mire of ebony tar exploded over one abomination just as it shoved its head into view. Howls of rage ensued, somewhat muffled by the rock and tar. Eingana darted in to stab the flailing creature through the head, but wasted no more time dodging around the bulging, cracking floor and resumed her course towards the center.

She finally reached it, welcomed with a brief but heartfelt hug by Merrill and a slap on the back by Varric. Eingana turned around, labouring to catch her breath and holding her swords ready to fight.

"Fenris?" she gasped.

"He'll be here in a moment," Varric said. "He intended to give you time to get to us, but he still needs to get back here himself. I'm doubt he'll have much trouble."

That, as it turned out, was an accurate assessment. The flow of demons and undead into the chamber had slowed somewhat; a few stragglers still entered at the distant circumference, but the body of the horde that had broken off from Hawke's army to chase Eingana had spread out in confusion around the chamber. Many had been killed by Merrill and Varric; a few still seemed engaged in a chaotic conflict a little further than halfway from the pit.

Bright white lyrium flares burst in the midst of the swarming shades and zombies, and Fenris emerged like a specter, knocking aside feebly clawing corpses and grasping shades. He impaled a desire demon through the head as it materialized in front of him and kept running with barely a pause. Eingana made an appreciative whistle.

"I could use him."

Her remark was met by an arched eyebrow from Varric and a bemused frown from Merrill. "As a Grey Warden, of course," she clarified, and Varric smiled archly.

A minute later, Fenris reached the circle of pillars that surrounded the basin, and took up a defensive position on the other side of Merrill and Varric from Eingana. He seemed barely winded. Eingana scanned the various demons and undead throughout the chamber; a few were heading towards them uncertainly, but most appeared to have lost track of her. That was fine with Eingana.

"Where is Hawke?" Fenris demanded. "And the mage?"

"We were separated," Eingana said tightly. "Last I saw Anders, he was still fighting Hawke – trying to lead him here, but surrounded on all sides. I would have stayed with him, but the demons forced me away. There was no way I could have fought my way to him."

"Bloody Andraste," Varric muttered. "You think he'll be able to make it here?"

Eingana shook her head, still breathing hard. "I don't know." She took a few deep breaths to try and sooth the burn in her chest.

"What about Reaver?" Merrill asked anxiously.

Eingana looked at her grimly. "Merrill... Reaver is Hawke's dog. He listened to me probably because I smell like Ferelden and because I said I would give him lamb bones, but I'm not the one he's imprinted on. Hawke called on Reaver's loyalty and Reaver went to him."

Merrill looked crestfallen. "But he's still alive? Hawke wouldn't _kill_ his own dog, surely?"

"I don't know what happened to Reaver," Eingana admitted. "I lost sight of him even before I lost sight of Justice. But listen, Merrill. We can't worry about the dog right now. I think if Justice doesn't show up soon, we should try to reach him. He's the only one who can complete the trap, and if Hawke's not contained here..."

Merrill nodded dispiritedly. Her eyes slid to the basin.

"He must be," she said quietly. "Hawke _must_ be contained."

Her tone was so clouded with fear that Eingana looked at the shy elf in concern.

"I've examined this... thing," Merrill said, gesturing to the basin and the circle of stones and globes. "If Hawke gets access to it, or the spirit that has control of him – he could... he could... it would be bad. It would be very, very bad."

Eingana eyed the basin apprehensively. The vast bowl was relatively shallow, but it was soiled with a damp, fetid crust of mould and dirt. Stains of fungal growth reached from its edges towards the center like grasping tendrils. And the depression in the middle, beneath the funnel that extended from the ceiling to a bare meter above, was thick with the remnants of ancient brown blood.

The chill that Eingana had felt in the corridor was most pronounced here. Flakes of rime clung to the edges of the basin and the pillars' inward faces. She felt dizzy and sick just looking at it, so she turned away with a shudder.

"Perhaps, if Anders and Justice are... defeated," she said quietly, "we should destroy this place, rather than allow Hawke access to it."

Merrill bit her lip at the indirect suggestion that Anders and Justice would perish at Hawke's hands, but she nodded. "I have to agree. This place is... is... _evil_."

Varric looked uncomfortable, and Fenris had a strange look on his face that took Eingana a moment to identify. With a start, she realized what it was – fear. In the short time she had known the elf, Eingana had never seen Fenris afraid. The sleek shape of his face, the deceptively gentle brown tone of his skin, the lyrium brands – all seemed more conducive for angry scowls and suspicious glares.

"If the blood mage is afraid of this place," Fenris commented, his gaze meeting Eingana's, "then I shudder to think what a powerful spirit may do with it."

Eingana said nothing. She secured her grip on her blades, taking deep breaths, and rested while she could. Elves and dwarf turned to face the chamber, alert for any demons taking notice of them, and waited.

**ασυνέχεια**

Hawke was never quite sure what Justice would do next, and that made him an exhilarating and arousing opponent. The spirit-possessed mage engaged Hawke both with his staff and his magic; he fought with the viciousness of a cornered Mabari hound, and yet at the same time with cold tactical intelligence reminiscent of a dwarven general.

The combatants exchanged a flurry of blindingly fast blows, Justice with his staff and Hawke with his greatsword. Neither landed a strike on the other until Hawke lashed out unexpectedly with his clawed gauntlet, spinning under Justice's staff with his greatsword whirling behind him. His strike dealt only superficial damage, slashing a rip in Anders's robe and barely breaking the skin beneath. Nevertheless, Justice retreated at once, spinning his staff in a slow circle in front of him as he eyed the warrior intently, evaluating the threat of his latest tactic.

Hawke hung back with his sword raised in ready position, flashing a taunting smirk at the angry mage and swinging lightly back and forth on his feet as he waited for Justice to make another move. Behind Hawke, the mass of undead and demons he'd summoned roiled impatiently, eager for blood and kept in check only by their master's indomitable will. Reaver paced in the shadows, uncomfortable with the demons so near and with explicit orders not to attack them or interfere with Justice.

Justice attacked again suddenly, this time launching a wave of caustic magic from afar. Hawke spun and slid elegantly between crests of an entropic surge that would have rendered him confused and slow, easily vulnerable to the mage's staff or further acts of sorcery. Hawke wondered momentarily what Justice had intended with a spell so easily dodged; then he glanced around in surprise as the violet ripples of magic washed through his army behind him. Justice took advantage of the sudden languid stillness among the host of corpses and shades to conjure a raging inferno in their midst. Most of the undead caught within the whirling fiery cyclone were flash-consumed instantaneously, and even some of the hardier demons shriveled into denatured ash with much furious screeching and hissing.

Hawke couldn't help cracking a feral grin as he looked back at the mage, regarding him with fiery blue eyes. Justice was a worthy foe, intelligent and highly resourceful. Hawke almost wished he'd provoked the spirit into emerging from Anders sooner.

Ostensibly, the actions of the spirit alone were predictable, but only over broad contextual trajectories. His singular focus made it easy to determine how Justice would react to a generalized situation, with the provision of certain background facts. Anders, on the other hand, was human, and so possessed the divine spark of the Maker's creativity shared by all His mortal creations. When Anders's cleverness and adaptability were combined with the sheer unrelenting power of Justice, they made up a formidable opponent and presented a deeply exciting challenge.

Here and now, from moment to moment as they closed in once again to exchange furious blows hand-to-hand, the spirit who possessed Hawke's lover kept him constantly guessing. He was kept always on the move, dodging unexpected spears of azure fire, slipping between the clamping jaws of an entropic curse, avoiding sudden traps and snaps of power from behind or above. Yet Hawke was far from overwhelmed; he kept Justice on the defensive just as much, darting around him with superhuman speed and slashing and stabbing with his greatsword. He'd wounded the mage a few times, though not seriously – yet.

Hawke saw an opening as Justice parted his arms to cast a spell and darted in with lightning reflexes, palming the mage on the chest hard enough to send him staggering backwards and fighting to remain upright. Hawke rolled his shoulders and flexed his armoured hands, eager for an even closer taste of what this spirit could do. He raised his greatsword and let go of it, allowing the long, razor-sharp blade to dissolve into insubstantiality, and bared his teeth in a savage grin. Justice regained control of his momentum and eyed him with an angry frown. The spirit braced himself just in time as Hawke leapt at him with glittering claws of crimson magic raised.

Justice parried Hawke's downward slash with his staff and spun around to attack the warrior from behind, but Hawke moved with him, inhumanly fast. His claws locked against Justice's staff, straining to push it downwards and out of the way. Anders couldn't best Hawke for physical strength, but he could strengthen himself with magic. Even so, his arms trembled with the effort of keeping Hawke's claws from his throat. Oily power gleamed and curled along the length of polished wood, preventing it from igniting or snapping under the strain. Finally, with a roar of exertion, Justice shoved his staff against Hawke's chest, releasing a burst of magical force as he did so, and Hawke was flung away. He very nearly failed to dodge the torrent of electrical arcs that followed, lashing at him from the mage's staff and missing his back by inches.

Hawke had always relished uncertain combat he couldn't be entirely sure of escaping alive. The thrill of this fight was sweeter than most, since it carried the possible reward of having Justice utterly at his mercy rather than just Anders. In this case, he was reasonably certain he would prevail eventually – Anders was a powerful mage, and Justice an intense spirit, but even together their power was dwarfed by the wyrd's. Still, the energetic fight stirred a primal lust deep in Hawke's body that he hadn't felt for some time. It was a lust for bloodshed, or perhaps sexual domination – he couldn't quite tell, but the idea of both was gratifying enough.

He advanced on Justice again as the mage pressed his hands together to conjure a boulder-sized sphere of hardened air. He threw it overhand in Hawke's direction with blue energy coursing along his arms to boost his strength and provide the necessary exertion. Hawke's claws flashed up to knock the missile away, but the force of its impact halted his advance.

He might have been able to exert more magical strength if he was wounded himself – the wyrd had seen the likes of his reaver initiation in the past, and it knew exactly how to use his body's altered chemistry to its advantage. Annoyingly, however, Justice was aware that breaking Hawke's skin was the surest way to make him stronger, and had tenaciously avoided doing so. His blasts of magic were intended to bruise or concuss or burn, never to break or cut. Hawke had limited ability to employ the wyrd's ancient brand of powerful magic without shedding his own blood, and so it proved difficult to deflect Justice's attacks when he could not dodge them. He might have slashed himself with his own claws, but thus far Justice kept him engaged with such dogged persistence that Hawke hadn't had an opportunity to do so.

Seeing Justice hanging back, gesturing threateningly with his staff to keep the warrior at bay while he caught his breath, Hawke dissolved his magical claws. He made as if to fold his arms but instead scratched deeply along the length of his inner forearms with the metal points of both gauntlets. The pain he felt awakened the reaver's blood rage that slept within him, and Hawke smiled wickedly as he saw Justice's angry glare become concerned. The possessed mage attacked at once, spinning his staff and advancing rapidly in a chaotic whirlwind of blue fire.

Hawke deflected the spinning attack easily with his bare gauntlet, his reflexes elevated to extraordinary speeds by the wyrd's magic. Justice was knocked against the wall, shaken brutally as the solid impact brought his whirling staff to an abrupt halt with a thunderous crack. Hawke stabbed eagerly with his claws, igniting the blades of magic once again, and Justice dropped barely in time to avoid what he likely believed would have been cranial impalement.

Hawke yanked his claws from the charred, cracked wall and snickered cruelly as the mage stumbled away from him. His claws had landed in the wall to either side of where Anders's head had been, but apparently Justice didn't know that. Hawke wouldn't have ended it that quickly – he had plans for Justice, and the body he possessed. Perhaps it was time to enlighten him a little, to see if a volatile spirit warped by the rage of its host could feel fear. How exciting it would be to find out, Hawke mused.

Justice turned around to face him as Hawke stalked forward. The mage opened his fingers in Hawke's direction with crystal blue power flowering in his palm. Hawke realized what he was doing just in time to counter it; the healing magic splashed uselessly against a pane of blood magic that Hawke conjured in the air between them. Clever spirit – healing the warrior's injuries would limit his power. Too bad Justice had been so obvious about it. He'd tried that trick once already, in the laboratory far above them. Once bitten, twice shy.

Justice eyed Hawke for any further attempt to break his own skin as he crept carefully backwards, staff raised defensively. Hawke followed him, licking his lips, obsidian eyes locked on the spirit's fiery blue gaze. Behind him, the horde of shades and rage demons drifted to keep pace with him, boiling with pent-up fury, at the limits of their obedience.

_Be patient, my pets_, the wyrd cast into the chaotic minds of the demons. _Your time will come. Soon your rage will be unleashed, your hunger sated. Not yet, but soon_.

The demons quieted a fraction. Reaver whined his distress, dancing amidst the demons and trying to avoid touching them.

Justice stepped around the sigil he'd inscribed into the dust beneath their feet, keeping his eyes on Hawke as the warrior advanced. Hawke was tempted to kick his bare feet through the sigil and ruin it, but on a whim he decided to leave it intact. The possibility existed that disturbing the purity of the sigil's shape would release the magic in channeled like the snap of a rubber band. Besides, Hawke was rather curious about what Justice was planning. He knew – or rather, the wyrd knew, and Hawke was aware through it – that Justice was drawing him towards the nexus of Kirkwall's ancient ley line network, the largest node of its intersecting forces and the hub of its blood magic channels.

What Justice intended to do to him there was unknown. There must have been some reason he'd sent the others ahead, after all – perhaps to finish preparing a trap. The wyrd was unconcerned, but Hawke was secretly excited. Whatever it was would no doubt prove to be the most interesting and challenging endeavour the spirit had yet thrown at him. And somewhere else in his mind, deep in his awareness where skeletons of thought lurked, choked with despair and changing sluggishly if at all, the true Michael Hawke savoured the possibility that whatever Justice had in store for him would be more than the wyrd could handle.

Justice pulled back his staff, preparing to launch a spell, and Hawke lunged with a growl. Justice was forced to bring his staff back around to block, and he barely did so in time. They exchanged another series of rapid blows; Justice managed to prevent Hawke from wounding him again, and eventually landed a powerful strike against the warrior's unprotected neck.

Hawke grunted at the sudden pain and backed up a little, surprised and enraged by the spirit's minor accomplishment. Instead of holding back as Justice seemed to be expecting him to do, Hawke threw himself into a furious assault, slashing and clawing with blinding speed fueled by his rage. Justice was forced ever backwards, somehow managing to fend off Hawke's blows, but Anders's body was flagging. Justice was a powerful spirit, but as vast as his pool of mana was, it was dwindling with every furious strike he had to block with magically-enhanced strength.

_We are limitless_, the wyrd whispered through the Fade, and the mage's eyes widened as Justice heard its voice. _You are not_. Hawke bared his teeth and hissed his pleasure as he detected a flicker of real fear in Anders's face. He looked forward with lustful anticipation to finding out just what it would take to transform that fear into full-blown insane terror.

Finally, pressed by Hawke's unrelenting savagery and his own deteriorating condition, Justice made a mistake. Hawke's fist flashed outwards and Justice's staff was simply in the wrong place, unable to move up in time to deflect the warrior's ringing backhand. Justice staggered with a resonant cry of pain; he brought up his staff to try and strike back, but Hawke's other hand yanked the weapon from his grip and hurled it into the darkness further down the corridor. The light of the staff's crystal dimmed as it was cut off from Justice's power, leaving only the glow of the spirit's presence through Anders's flesh to illuminate their surroundings.

Justice refused to give in, struggling to regain his balance, but Hawke was too fast. No sooner had his staff left his grip than the mage was pinned against the wall with a metal-clad hand around his throat and another pressed painfully into his chest. He was fortunate enough that the blades of red energy were gone, but the heavily muscled warrior's weight leaning forcefully against him was too much to dislodge without the staff to amplify his magic.

Justice struggled nevertheless, and Hawke's lip curled in a sneer. Their eyes were locked together, solid black and radiant blue.

Behind Hawke, the wall of demons began to close around them, sensing their prey was near and close to being disabled. The air rippled as shades reached out hungrily to suck at the spirit's reserves of mana.

Hawke snarled and spun around, keeping one hand on Anders's neck and slashing out with the other in a wide arc. He let out an unearthly roar and the shades cowered away, unwilling to test their master's patience any further. Reluctantly, resentfully, the horde backed off, dissolving with a chorus of groans and screeches into the surrounding darkness. Reaver fled with them, frightened by his own master, and Hawke's face twisted in disgust. He would punish the dog later.

Hawke turned back to Justice and his scowl became a lewd smile as he met the spirit's glare. He replaced his hand on Anders's chest and squeezed, the points of his gauntlets digging uncomfortably into the mage's skin through the heavy fabric of his robe. Justice hissed in pain and tried to dislodge the warrior's hand from his neck, but Hawke's grip was like a steel vice. Hawke leaned forward until their faces were inches apart, and his hot breath caressed Anders's neck. Justice shuddered and continued to struggle determinedly, if uselessly.

Hawke's hand crept up Anders's chest like a spider. When he reached the mage's shoulder, Hawke released a twinge of magic to dissolve his gauntlet, leaving his hand bare and free. Slowly, softly, he ran the back of his fingers down Anders's jaw, enjoying the tingle of power he felt as his hand passed over the shining blue force of the spirit within.

"Alone at last," Hawke breathed with his lips against Anders's jaw. "Mmm... you smell really good. Like... magic, and fear." A smirk crossed his lips and he flicked the mage's skin lightly with his tongue. "Justice, you are one hard guy to find. I'm so glad you've finally decided to... come out of your shell." He chuckled darkly.

"Unhand me, creature, and let us fight properly," Justice demanded. He pulled his head back, trying vainly to twist away from Hawke's lips and his wandering fingers. Hawke laughed at him and grabbed him by the chin, rematerializing his gauntlet as he did. He removed his other hand from Anders's neck and trailed it down his robes to feel around his waist.

"Come on, now," Hawke murmured plaintively, and he ran his tongue along the mage's stubbly jaw, relishing Justice's shudder. "We finally get some alone time together, and all you want to do is fight?"

"Cease this foulness," Justice spat, squirming as hard as he could. Hawke's teeth grazed his face with a husky groan, finally reaching the mage's mouth for a hungry kiss. Justice growled his anger and shook his head vigorously, trying to dislodge the warrior and get away from his advance. He shoved against Hawke's shoulders repeatedly, but Hawke would not be denied. His grip on the mage's chin tightened until his teeth were forced reluctantly apart, and Hawke pressed in eagerly with his tongue. He let out a pleased growl as traces of Justice's power induced a tingling chill on his tongue.

"Damn, you taste good," Hawke purred to the spirit softly. "I wonder if I'll feel that power on my dick when I shove it down your throat."

Just voicing the words made Hawke shiver with anticipation. He caught Anders's lower lip between his teeth and sucked on it while his clawed fingers traced delicately over the pulse point of the mage's throat.

Still Justice refused to yield, pounding every part of Hawke's body he could reach and strengthening himself as best he could with the magic he had left. It wasn't enough. Hawke's weight kept him pinned to the wall, and try as he might, Justice could not prevent Hawke's lustful advance. Hawke scratched a deep gouge into the mage's face, and Justice's grunt of pain became one of anger when Hawke followed his finger with his tongue. Hawke shuddered with pleasure against him.

"Fuck," Hawke groaned. "Your blood _tastes_ like _magic_."

His teeth found Anders's earlobe and he bit down hard. Enraged, Justice released a powerful jolt of electricity into the warrior. Hawke convulsed, but his hands gripping Anders's chin and his hip did not relent. In fact, they tightened, and to Justice's consternation, the noise Hawke made was not one of pain, but of pleasure.

"Yeah... now _this_ is fun," Hawke groaned, leaning in for another greedy kiss. He swept his bloodied tongue through Anders's mouth even as Justice tried again to push him away. "I never realized how hot it would be when you actually fight back. Anders mostly just moans and begs me to use him. He's never this... _spirited_."

Hawke laughed, and his lips and tongue moved down to suck on the mage's neck.

"Enough!" Justice bellowed. He shocked Hawke again, as forcefully as he could. The air around them crackled with power and Justice's hands trembled with weakness as he discharged almost more mana than he could stand to draw from the Fade. Still Hawke was implacable. Though his body quivered with the electrical force thundering through him, he would not let go.

"Maker's breath, Justice," Hawke gasped when the spirit had finally desisted his attack, unable to push any more power from his battered nerves. "How has it taken you this long to come out and play?" His hand snaked down into Anders's robe and cupped his member through the fabric. Hawke fondled him roughly, and Justice inhaled in sharp surprise.

Hawke's smile became a savage grin. He leaned forward to trail his tongue up Justice's neck until his lips brushed against the mage's ear.

"Have you ever experienced an orgasm, Justice?" Hawke whispered. "Do you know what it feels like to have a man's cock up your ass?" He squeezed, and let out an approving growl when he felt Anders hardening beneath his grip. "There we go... feel that blood rushing into your dick? Feel that heat stirring in the pit of your stomach?"

"No," Justice groaned, but Hawke silenced him with a kiss.

"Do you even pay attention when Anders and I are having our fun?" Hawke murmured, entwining the fingers of his hand not fondling Justice through the mage's hair. "You have _no_ idea what you've been missing. I am going to rock your world."

Justice reacted violently, pushed perhaps by rage or perhaps by fear. He took a deep, shuddering breath and, with a cry of exertion, expelled raw mana from his entire body with desperate force. Hawke was at last thrown off him, staggering into the far wall of the corridor with a startled curse. Justice was on him in an instant, grabbing the warrior under his arms and hauling him bodily overhead to slam painfully against the floor of the corridor. The rifts in the mage' skin flashed bright azure as the spirit exerted tremendous magical force through his host's body.

Even through his blind rage, Justice acted with a shadow of intent. The sigil he'd inscribed over the node on the floor was right beneath Hawke's back. Hawke snarled and made to leap back to his feet; Justice slammed him back down with a boulder of force. Desperately, unsure what would even happen but left with no other choice, Justice yanked hard on Kirkwall's ancient network with the very last of his strength.

Abruptly, the corridor was choked with blinding radiance. White-hot light washed down the corridor in both directions, spreading madly down a number of branching passages for a considerable distance. The less powerful among the scattered demons that had not followed Eingana to the nexus were incinerated in a fraction of a moment; Reaver, having made it to the nexus, was spared. Unlike previous eruptions from the old channels, the blast brought stillness and silence to the Undercity.

**ασυνέχεια**

Isabela, Wynne, and Knight-Captain Cullen were in the midst of a furious battle against a horde of zombies when the light reached them.

Isabela's anxiety over the dark, enclosed corridors had diminished somewhat in the presence of Wynne's soothing magic. The elderly mage carried a palpable aura of power about her that sharpened reflexes, quickened thought, and closed most minor wounds more or less instantaneously. Riding the high of a long string of clean, artful kills, Isabela could almost forget that she was in the dank Undercity with most of Kirkwall above her head.

She managed to enjoy herself quite a bit by teasing Cullen, who seemed to prefer fighting in stoic silence and threw her strange looks whenever she taunted the mindless undead or mocked a rage demon for its pitiful lack of dexterity. The soft-spoken Knight-Captain was a deadly warrior, and his templar magic was certainly invaluable against the more powerful demons; Isabela found it amusing that such a capable fighter could be so shy around women. It was easy to make Cullen blush, and Isabela did so often.

Neither of them, however, were particularly impressed when the corridor they were systematically cleansing of demonic activity was suddenly flooded with blinding light.

Isabela threw up an arm to shield her eyes and backed up cautiously. The last zombie she'd been fighting was almost certainly dead, since she'd embedded one of her knives in its head in a rather final manner, but the weight of its decomposing flesh around her blade had disappeared suddenly with the light. The hissing of the corpses and the howls of approaching rage demons had fallen ominously silent, but the pirate still couldn't be certain the creature wouldn't come for her while she was blinded.

And why _was_ she blinded, anyways? Had Wynne or Cullen performed some magic that had gotten out of control? It didn't seem so – next to her, she could barely make out Cullen using his shield to protect his eyes. He had been caught by surprise as well.

More magical explosions, Isabela thought with some bemused annoyance. At least this time there weren't earthquakes, too. She could hear no sinister rumbling; in fact, she could hear nothing at all but her own breathing.

"Wynne?" Isabela called, just as the light began to die down.

"Here," Wynne said in a tone of astonishment, and Isabela lowered her arm as it once again became bearable to do so.

After the sheer intensity of the light, the darkness that followed seemed radically more profound than it had before. Isabela was grateful for the glow of Wynne's staff as she blinked furiously, trying to readjust her eyes.

"What by Andraste was _that_?" Cullen asked, peering into the darkness. The undead had utterly vanished. He turned to look at Wynne questioningly. The enchanter wore a thoughtful frown.

"It was magic," she said, and Isabela snorted explosively.

"Really?" she asked, and even Cullen raised his eyebrow with an arch smile. "Could you be more specific?"

Wynne's frown softened in amusement. "I'm not sure what it was, but I feel... invigorated. I believe it infused me with some excess mana."

"It also appears to have killed the undead," Cullen pointed out.

"So... that's good, right?" Isabela asked as Wynne passed between her and the templar to examine a patch of wall nearby.

"Hmmm," Wynne remarked. Isabela glanced at Cullen, but he shrugged with a clank of armour.

Wynne raised her hand and passed it over the wall, and a series of interlocking runes and glyphs appeared, traced in glowing lines that slowly brightened as Wynne's hand brushed past them.

"What's that?" Isabela asked, but Wynne gestured for silence. The enchanter examined the glyphs closely, performing some esoteric magical examination with her hand at the same time. A soft aura, azure blue, wavered among her fingers.

"Interesting," Wynne murmured.

"...Enchanter?" Cullen asked tentatively after a few more moments of non-explanation.

"This is a node," Wynne said. "It is part of a larger network of ley lines."

Isabela's mouth opened with dawning realization. "Hey, that sounds familiar. Anders was going to do something with a network. And... nodes, and stuff."

"Indeed," Wynne said softly. "I have never seen magic like this before, but I have read about it. I did not realize the confluence over which Kirkwall is situated was so... extensive." She looked worried.

"Are those glyphs part of the node, or something else?" Cullen asked.

"No. The markings are meant to redirect the flows of power that enter the node from their natural channels to specific alternate paths," Wynne explained. "This alteration is very recent."

"Right," Isabela said, trying to gently urge the other two on to the obvious conclusion she had pointed out already. "Anders and the others must have passed by here, and he set it up to do whatever he needed it to for his trap to work."

Cullen made an "ah" as he understood, and Wynne nodded slowly, but her face was still creased with concern. She stared at the glyphs for another few moments, and Isabela shifted her weight from one leg to another.

Cullen coughed politely. "Enchanter – shall we move on?" he suggested.

Wynne started and looked at him. "Oh – yes. Pardon me. Lead on, Cullen." She gestured for the Knight-Captain to move deeper into the corridor, and he did so.

"I dearly hope that spirit knows what it's doing," Wynne muttered as she and Isabela followed, but only the pirate heard her.

**ασυνέχεια**

When the incandescence finally faded, both warrior and mage lay prone on the floor to one side of the flickering sigil. Hawke's wounds were healed, and Justice had subsided, leaving Anders's skin unmarked by the energy of the Fade. Hawke's greatsword had reappeared from whatever ethereal recess the wyrd had spirited it to – it was stuck point first in the brittle floorboards, still glimmering with traces of the creature's crimson magic.

For a time, both were still; then Hawke stirred with a groan of pain. His head was spinning, and he could barely see straight.

"Anders?" Hawke whispered, and the mage twitched beside him.

Hawke tried to push himself to a sitting position, but the effort wracked his entire body with dizzying pain. He nearly collapsed again, holding his face and chest off the floor with trembling arms, breathing hard through the encompassing, burning ache. It was particularly bad in his chest around his heart – Hawke felt like he'd run the length of the Wounded Coast at top speed without stopping. Every beat of his weary heart was a pulse of pain. He clutched one hand over his chest, trying instinctively to soothe the burn somehow. It ebbed, but very slowly.

There was a sudden noise of grunting and scrabbling feet next to him, and Hawke looked up blearily. Anders, clearly, hadn't been as severely incapacitated by the blast of magic as he had. The mage scrambled to his feet and darted some distance down the corridor to retrieve his staff. Anders reignited its crystal to shed a weak, thready light and approached Hawke cautiously, holding his staff ready to strike.

"Anders," Hawke mumbled again. Unable to hold himself up any longer, he collapsed on his face with a grunt.

Anders rushed to Hawke's side and knelt next to him, cautiously reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Michael?"

Hawke nodded dumbly against the floor. Grunting with effort, Anders rolled the warrior over onto his back. Hawke's head rolled listlessly and his eyes drifted closed, but his teeth were clenched.

"Michael, stay with me," Anders muttered urgently, running his hand unconsciously down Hawke's arm. "Is it – I mean, are you-"

Hawke's eyes snapped open and his hand darted out to grab Anders's wrist. Anders gasped, and nearly recoiled, but Hawke's eyes were green and clear.

"Anders," Hawke said hoarsely. "Listen to me. You have to... kill me."

"_What_?" Anders hissed in horror. "No! _No_, Michael!"

"Right now," Hawke demanded, his voice gaining strength. His eyes were wide and bright with emotion. "While you can. While I... can make the choice."

"I will _not_!" Anders cried. "Michael, there's a way we can fix this, we're so close – just get up and come with me, it's five minutes' walk-"

Hawke's grip on Anders's wrist tightened painfully, and his other hand lurched up to grab the mage by his shoulder. Hawke yanked him down until their faces were inches apart.

"Do it, you bastard," Hawke breathed. "You could end it all right now, if you're strong enough. No more killing. No more demons, no more pain." His voice cracked. "For either one of us."

"Shut up, shut _up_, Maker damn you!" Anders yelled. Tears were flowing down his face as he tried to haul Hawke to his feet, but Hawke wouldn't get up. Frustrated, Anders stepped back and whirled his staff in an emphatic gesture. Tendrils of Fade-blue force lifted Hawke bodily by his chest and raised him into the air. He twisted until he was more-or-less oriented in a standing position, and the magic dropped him back to the ground.

"Now let's g-" Anders began, but Hawke lunged at him with a snarl and slammed him against the wall. Anders's staff clattered to the floor, illuminating them from below and only poorly. Hawke's eyes were hard, and even now, in this terrible moment, Anders was struck by their beautiful green.

"You're weak!" Hawke roared. "Your weakness will bring ruin and calamity down upon this world! If you love me, you must do as I command, and I command you to kill me!"

"I disobey you," Anders groaned, and suddenly Hawke's lips were pressed against his.

Hawke gripped Anders by his head, fingers entwined in the mage's sandy hair. Anders wrapped his arms around Hawke's shoulders and kissed him back with desperate passion.

Finally they broke apart, reluctantly, and Anders savoured the heat of Hawke's breath on his neck. He squeezed him with tears in his eyes and wondered how his life had ever become so screwed up.

"Anders," Hawke whispered in his ear, and Anders's heart broke when he felt warm tears, not his own, on his cheek. "_Please_."

"I can't," Anders said. "I can't, Michael. You _are_ my world, and I will never, ever give up on you. Maybe you're right, and that does make me weak, but it's how I am. I can't choose to not _be_."

Hawke hugged him tightly, breathing harshly in an attempt to control his emotions. Anders felt a surge of unexpected warmth between them, concentrated against the skin of his chest. Startled, he reached into his robe and withdrew the talisman he'd taken from the chest in Hawke's bedroom. Anders had long since forgotten he'd even been wearing it.

_Asit tal-eb, _whispered the alien voice. _It is to be._

Hawke was looking at him curiously, and Anders struggled for a moment to remove the talisman from around his neck. He draped it around Hawke's neck instead, and the warrior stared at him. Then his expression changed, somehow, and Anders reached up to touch his lover's face gently.

"Existence is a choice," Hawke murmured.

Anders nodded. "A self of suffering brings only suffering to the world," he continued.

_It is a choice, and we can refuse it,_ Ketojan finished silently, and Hawke shook his head in wonder.

"Come with me," Anders urged. "The nexus is just up ahead. If we can make it there before the..." His voice faltered.

"Wyrd," Hawke supplied. He shuddered, looking away. "It's called a wyrd."

"If we can get to the nexus before the wyrd takes you back," Anders pressed, "we'll be okay. Wynne's on her way. She must be here by now. All we need to do is keep you safe, and prevent you from hurting anyone else, until she gets here."

Hawke shook his head again, but he took a deep breath and stepped back from Anders. He looked around and reached over to yank his sword from the floor. It came free with a wrench of dust and shredded wood. Hawke hefted the heavy blade in one hand and brought it to rest carefully on his bare shoulder. With his other hand, he reached out to Anders.

Anders picked up his staff and took Hawke's hand in his. Their fingers intertwined. Together, they proceeded to the nexus.

**ασυνέχεια**

Not more than a quarter of an hour could have passed since Eingana had reached the nexus. In that time, she and Fenris had cleared a significant number of the wandering demons from the vast chamber, while Merrill and Varric supported them from the relative cover of the central circle.

Reaver arrived at one point, cowering and bloodied, and Merrill immediately wanted to go to him. Her heartfelt concern for the dog was touching, but Eingana convinced her to leave him be unless he came to them. There was no telling what Hawke might have ordered his Mabari to do.

Moments after Reaver arrived, the brilliant flux of light washed down the corridor from which he had emerged. None of the magic entered the hub chamber, but its flare was intense enough to spill light all the way to the ritual area. A number of demons loitering near the threshold were pierced by the light and collapsed with agonized howls, some of them seriously wounded and some only grazed. The elves and dwarf clustered at the central circle stared in awe and not a little fear, wondering what this latest development could mean.

"It's the network," Merrill said immediately as the light gradually died away. "I felt a pulse in the flows of magic around us. Justice must have been in trouble... he vented some of the power he meant to use here at one of the nodes."

Eingana's lips pursed in worry. "Can you tell what he did?" she asked. "Or if he's still alive?"

Merrill shook her head regretfully. "No."

Her eyes fell on Reaver, the dog having made his way some distance into the chamber. Unlike the demons, he hadn't been harmed by the light at all – in fact, it seemed to have energized him somewhat.

"Merrill," Eingana warned as the Dalish elf made as if to step forward. "Remember what I said."

Merrill nodded reluctantly and hung back, waiting to see how the dog would behave. Fortunately for them, it seemed that Reaver had either fled Hawke's side or been separated from him without explicit commands to attack. He limped his way to the ritual area, whining in pain.

Eingana remained cautious at first, but when Reaver made it to her and licked her hand, she relented with a relieved smile. She had come to feel some fondness for the intelligent hound herself over the course of the long, long day. She was glad Reaver was okay.

Merrill washed a minor healing spell over the dog, repairing the most serious of his injuries. She couldn't afford the mana for a full restoration, but she could at least ensure that Reaver wasn't needlessly suffering. He seemed grateful for the attention, barking happily and looking up at Merrill adoringly.

Time passed, and eventually Fenris asked "Now what?"

Eingana considered their dilemma. Varric and Merrill looked to the Warden-Commander, waiting for her answer. Even Reaver seemed to be paying attention.

"I think we should wait a few more minutes," Eingana said. "Then if Justice still hasn't shown up, we should-"

"Uh," Varric interrupted, and Eingana looked at him. The dwarf raised his arm to point, and as one the elves turned.

Hawke and Anders had appeared at the entrance and were walking in their direction, slowly, hand in hand. Hawke's eyes were green and sane; the wyrd was apparently suppressed for the time being. Justice, too, had evidently returned to dormancy at last. Eingana felt a surge of warm relief, but it was tempered somewhat by the somber expression on Anders's face.

Fenris clearly wasn't totally convinced by Hawke's apparent docility. He kept his greatsword poised and ready to strike, eyeing the approaching warrior warily. Soft light crawled along his lyrium brands, ready to lash out if necessary. Varric followed Fenris's example and kept Bianca in hand, though he appeared relieved and willing to believe Hawke was himself again – at least for the moment.

Reaver, for his part, barked joyfully and bounded out to meet Hawke and Anders. Hawke reached down to rub his hound's head with an expression of bitter sadness on his face.

"Everything okay?" Eingana called out as the warrior and mage came within earshot. Hawke frowned at his feet. He didn't seem to want to meet anyone's eyes.

"Soon," Anders replied.

Silently, Merrill and Varric parted to allow Hawke and Anders to reach the circle of pillars. Hawke hefted his greatsword and set it down with a clang on one of the more-or-less intact stone benches outside the ritual area, then removed his gauntlets and set them down next to his sword. He turned to Anders with a lost look on his face.

The mage folded Hawke in his arms and squeezed his eyes shut. A few tears slipped from beneath his lashes.

"I promise," Anders whispered, so softly that only Hawke and Eingana heard him, "that I will find you, wherever you are, and bring you back."

Hawke said nothing, but his arms squeezed the mage's back gratefully. His shoulders rose and fell with his ragged breath.

Merrill seemed distressed at the scene, and Varric grim. Fenris seemed to have accepted that Hawke was under his own control at present, and lowered his sword, though he left it unsheathed.

Reaver butted his head against Hawke's waist, making concerned whining noises, and Hawke cracked a wan smile as he parted from Anders's embrace, wiping his eyes roughly. He knelt down to give the hound a brief, grateful hug.

"Thank you, Reaver," Hawke said. "Your loyalty is... humbling."

Reaver let out a soft woof and licked Hawke's face once. Hawke stood up, and his eyes caught Eingana's.

The Warden-Commander met his gaze evenly. She reached out a hand and allowed her concern to show on her face.

"I believe in you, Michael Hawke," she said simply. He nodded his thanks and shook her hand. His gaze flicked around to Varric, Merrill, and Fenris. He noted Fenris's bare blade with a slight wryness in his lips.

Hawke rubbed his mouth with the back of one hand and cleared his throat.

"I'm, uh... sorry. For..." Hawke paused. The seconds stretched uncomfortably, and Hawke looked annoyed. "You get it."

Varric snorted. "It's okay, Hawke. Hang in there." Merrill nodded eagerly, eyes shining.

"Rest a while, Hawke," Fenris said quietly. "One way or another, this will all be over soon."

It was these words, more than any others, which seemed to affect Hawke the most. He squinted and looked down at the ground, brushing a tear from his face impatiently, but with a paradoxical smile.

"Yes," he said. "Yes." He nodded.

Anders indicated with his hand what he wanted Hawke to do. The warrior stepped between two pillars of the circular formation. The lip of the basin was as high as his chest, but he gripped it solidly and hauled himself up over the edge. It took him a moment to find a stable footing on the inclined plane of the basin's interior, slick in some places with moss and spidery traces of frost from the preternatural chill.

"How far in do I have to go?" Hawke asked, eying the funnel that reached down from the ceiling to the center of the basin, a few dozen meters away.

"Not too far," Anders said. "Say ten paces. Not all the way to the middle."

Hawke looked somewhat relieved, and walked the specified distance into the basin. His bare feet were soon blackened with the ancient rot that crusted the basin's surface, but he made no complaint.

"Merrill," Anders said. "You know the spell we need?"

"Yes," Merrill said, somewhat nervously, and stepped forward, remaining just outside the circle of pillars.

"When I tell you to, cast," Anders said to her. He gestured for the others to move back out of the ritual area. He stood between two of the pillars and raised his staff.

Azure magic crackled to life around him in a swirl, and rifts opened across his skin through which the light of the Fade shone. Justice had emerged again.

The magic crawling over Anders's body slid across him, up his arm, and into his staff. Justice reached up to touch the crystal at its apex to the filthy globe atop one of the pillars next to him, and it flickered to dim, cloudy life. The light inside the crystal sphere was the same blue of Justice's magic, but it was discoloured and obscured somewhat by the caked debris of centuries of neglect.

Justice shifted his staff to the sphere on the other side of him, and it too began to glow. Eingana and Merrill watched in fascination as the two glowing spheres brightened gradually, and a soft ringing noise became audible. Varric and Fenris were somewhat less interested, hanging well back from the ritual area and keeping an eye out for stray demons.

With two pillars activated, the magic began to spread around the circle on its own, jumping from globe to globe, without further urging by Justice. The possessed mage planted his staff on the floor between him and the edge of the basin; it remained there, standing upright and unsupported, as Justice moved his hands outward to touch both pillars at once. The lights of the corresponding globes brightened considerably, speeding up the spread of energy around the circle. The ringing noise didn't grow precisely louder, but it somehow became more noticeable, as if more quiet bells of the same pitch were gradually adding their voices to the chorus.

Far away, at the circumference of the chamber, the massive building-sized spheres began to brighten in tandem with their smaller counterparts in the ritual area. The gloom that still suffused the chamber receded as the gigantic crystals increased their light output. When the magic had reached more than halfway around the inner circle at the ritual area, the larger spheres began to light, one after the other, in a similar fashion.

Slowly, carefully, Justice pushed more energy into the pillars to either side of him. Countless sigils and glyphs engraved in the floor of the chamber all around them began to shine with their own soft radiance. The tracing fractal patterns of lyrium embedded in the ceiling started to pulse in a softly ponderous rhythm, accompanied by a deep, resonant thrum that came and went with the pulses. The heart of Kirkwall's ancient magical networks, so long asleep, was beating once again.

All the while, Hawke stood as silent and still as a statue, arms folded as he stood with his feet slightly canted to maintain an erect posture on the inclined inner surface of the basin. He faced outwards, watching Anders with a carefully neutral expression. The talisman on his chest sparkled faintly in sympathetic resonance with the prodigious magical forces gathering around it.

Merrill and Eingana couldn't help looking around in open-mouthed awe as the light reached further and further around the outer edge of the chamber. As each new crystal globe ignited, those already alight brightened further. More and more of the immense room was illuminated as Justice's strange ritual went on, and it was far, far larger than it had appeared even a few minutes previously.

At last, the entire inner circle was alight with fiery brilliance, and the huge crystals around the edge of the chamber bathed the entire space in their cold glow. The very air hummed with power, and a tremor shook the floor with each vast, distant _boom_ of the city's heartbeat. The blood funnel above the center of the basin remained dark, but the lyrium channels in the ceiling flowed into it like a vortex, releasing a puff of sparkling magical energy with each beat of the colossal rhythm.

Justice picked up his staff from its inert position in front of him. Like the lyrium traceries, the crystal at its apex pulsed in time with the beat. Justice held out his staff towards Hawke and said in a quiet, resonant voice, "Are you ready?"

Hawke unfolded his arms and nodded silently, once. His fingers flexed.

"Cast, Merrill," Justice intoned.

Merrill had her knife ready, and she carefully sliced a wound into her arm. Red mist drifted upwards from the cut and began to circle her wrist in a torus of magic. Merrill gestured with her other hand, shaping the torus into a rough ovoid, and then raised both hands towards Hawke.

The magic disappeared from around her hand, and a perfect sphere, tinted red, condensed from the air around Hawke to enclose him within. He examined it with apparent unconcern for a moment, but his eyes soon returned to Justice.

Her part finished, Merrill backed away from the pillar circle cautiously, sealing her casting wound with a slip of conventional mana.

The staff in Anders's hand began to glow brighter and brighter with each successive pulse. Justice swept it in a long, vertical arc in front of him, raising his other hand as it bloomed with spasming coils and loops of magic.

Eingana watched with relief, fascination, and unease warring in her gut. The fluttering, curling force around Anders's hand was almost hypnotically beautiful. Merrill, Varric, and Fenris were all staring openly, entranced by the breathtaking spectacle of sorcery. Still, some niggling doubt in the back of her mind made Eingana tear her eyes away from Justice to look at Hawke through the filmy red barrier that enveloped him.

His eyes were pits of black.

Hawke's hands shot out, and they too were alight with barely-contained magical fury – coloured not with Justice's blue, but the wyrd's bloody red. Needle-thin wires of the same hue, the Warden-Commander noted with horror, were slowly coiling around Anders's legs.

"Justice!" Eingana screamed, but her warning came too late.

The spirit slammed his staff on the floor of the chamber on the city's next pulse as Hawke yanked backwards with his hands, a look of savage glee on his face. Over the pervasive crystalline ringing of the spheres and the thunder of the city's heartbeat, a sound like a roaring waterfall arose. Justice hurtled forward as if invisible elastic bands attached to his arms and legs had suddenly released their tension.

A smooth, fluid portal opened in the blood magic membrane Merrill had cast; Justice came to a sudden halt in the air before Hawke, within the barrier, and at the instant the portal sealed behind him, on the next pulse of the heartbeat, blinding white fury erupted around them.

Eingana was stunned senseless by the sheer magnitude of the magical forces released at that moment. She was not harmed, and neither were any of the others outside of the basin – Justice had done his work well. The light was simply so bright, the roaring so loud, that for nearly a minute she knew nothing but white noise.

At last the explosive release of Justice's trap began to ebb. The heartbeat slowed and eventually stopped. The ringing noise quieted into inaudibility and then nothing. The crystal globes dimmed and were extinguished but for the two massive ones to either side of the chamber's entrance. Despite this, however, the immense chamber remained fully illuminated. The difference was that instead of many light sources around the edges, there was one incandescent river of power in the very center.

Blue-white magic flowed upwards in a colossal cylinder, a ceaseless roaring tide, its perimeter defined by the lip of the basin. It extended all the way down into the floor and up to the ceiling. Within its gauzy, starry volume, Anders and Hawke drifted in the air, motionless and apparently unconscious.

"What happened?" Merrill groaned, and Eingana rubbed her eyes, hoping dearly that her vision hadn't been permanently affected by the catastrophic climax of Justice's magic. _He might have warned us that would happen_, she thought, only half in jest. The levity died quickly.

Eingana scanned her surroundings with a spiritless, dutiful exhaustion. There were no demons she could see anywhere nearby, so that was good. Merrill, Varric, Fenris, and Reaver were all alive and unharmed, if seemingly as shocked into silence as she was by the light show; also good.

Hawke, however, had clearly not been as in control of himself as he'd seemed. The wyrd might have been a superb actor, able to mask the outward indications of his presence. Or it might have simply subsumed the warrior's volition so quickly and quietly that nobody had noticed. Either way, it had interfered at the last second, inducing Hawke to draw Justice into the basin with him at the moment the spell ignited. It had engineered a masterful backfire of Justice's own magic, trapping the spirit and his host in the nexus with warrior and wyrd.

What now? Eingana couldn't help thinking. None of them had any idea how to undo the trap. They had all assumed Justice and Anders would take care of that. How long could the two of them, mage and warrior, lovers perhaps doomed from the start, remain suspended in that roaring deluge of power? Years? Decades? Centuries?

The others hadn't seen what she had, so Eingana explained her deduction. Her words were met with blank, stupefied stares. She had nothing to say that would comfort or reassure them. Wynne was coming expecting to try to save Hawke from the wyrd that possessed him. If she knew no way to extract him from that impenetrable magical vault, then Eingana would know it couldn't be done.

Technically, their plan had succeeded; Hawke was contained and could no longer harm anyone or summon more demons. But the Warden-Commander of Ferelden was exhausted, cold, injured, and hungry. It was difficult not to also feel defeated.

**Ω**


	22. Unbroken

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Unbroken"**

"Others approach," came the soft rumble of Fenris's warning, and Eingana looked up wearily. She stood up from her position sitting on the ancient stone bench that held Hawke's sword and gauntlets and moved her hand down to rest near the hilt of her enchanted longsword, just in case.

At the remote perimeter of the nexus chamber, three human figures had appeared in the entrance – two women and a man in heavy plate armour. The light of the circumferential globes alone would have left them indistinct in the gloom, but the roaring spire of magic at the chamber's hub more than made up for the inadequate illumination. Once the new arrivals had fully emerged from the shadows of the corridor, Eingana clearly made out Isabela, Wynne, and... a templar.

Eingana tensed, eyeing the holy knight with a thoughtful frown. Why, by Andraste, was there a templar with them? Then Eingana looked closer, and she realized that the man with Wynne and Isabela was not just any templar, but Knight-Captain Cullen. What could he possibly be doing here?

But more importantly, why was he the only templar in sight? In Eingana's experience, if a single templar so much as smelled magic, legions more would emerge from the woodwork very soon after. And the magic going on in this room was very obvious, to put it mildly.

Cullen was a reasonable enough man, though he had reacted badly to his imprisonment and torture during Uldred's coup at Kinloch Hold. And really, Eingana couldn't blame him in the slightest for that. But there was no way to know whether the Knight-Captain intended to call down the wrath of the Order on their heads at any moment.

Eingana kept her hand near her blade as the three humans approached.

"Isabela!" Merrill called in relief, and the pirate waved.

"And the mage must be Enchanter Wynne," Varric said with relief in his voice.

"Isn't that the templar captain?" Fenris added, too quietly for the humans to hear.

Eingana nodded tightly, exchanging a glance with the other elf.

"Did we not wish to avoid involving the templars?" Fenris muttered to her.

Eingana shrugged. "Cullen's alright, as far as I know. Mostly. Let's see what he wants."

Fenris nodded his assent, carefully watching the templar and mage both.

Isabela was staring in wonder at the magical uproar in the middle of the chamber as they neared the ritual area. Cullen was also watching it with obvious awe, but also a detectable hint of unease. Wynne hardly seemed aware of the pillar of light at all; she looked tired, but her face lit up as Eingana walked out to meet her.

"My dear!" Wynne said warmly as the elf reached her. They embraced. "Oh, it is so good to see you again!"

"Wynne," Eingana replied with a smile, feeling a surge of fondness uplift her low spirits. She gave the enchanter a gentle squeeze. "You're looking well. I'm glad you made it here safely."

Beside them, Merrill had also moved forward to greet Isabela. The pirate took her hands affectionately, but soon submitted to Merrill's anxious hug.

"What happened, Kitten?" Isabela asked, her eyes on Anders, hovering unconscious and spread-eagled beside Hawke within the containment field. The mage's staff lay abandoned in front of the basin, just beyond the limit of the magic.

"That is an excellent question," Cullen commented, and the atmosphere in the chamber seemed to drop a few degrees.

"Knight-Captain," Eingana said as she parted from Wynne. "Don't take this the wrong way, but why are you here?"

"I can answer that," Wynne said. "Meredith insisted I be escorted into Kirkwall by one of her men."

Eingana's eyebrows shot up. "Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"No doubt to serve as the first line of defense should the good enchanter erupt into an abomination, or spontaneously resort to blood magic," Cullen said, rubbing his forehead, unable to entirely disguise the bitterness in his voice.

Varric raised his hand. "Hello," he said. "Varric Tethras, at your service. Um... correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you a senior enchanter of the College of Magi? In Cumberland?"

"That's correct," Wynne said.

Varric shook his head. "Oh, Meredith," he muttered. "You special, special lady."

Fenris snorted, and Isabela cracked a smile. Cullen, for his part, did not look even remotely offended.

"I volunteered to be the one to escort Enchanter Wynne," he explained. "I knew her in Ferelden. I have no wish to needlessly insult powerful and influential mages who have served loyally for decades, without ever showing any signs of demonic possession or tendencies toward blood magic."

Wynne smiled at him, but it was a thin effort.

"As for my presence here," Cullen continued as Eingana opened her mouth to speak again, "I am aware of the situation with the Champion. Guard-Captain Aveline explained it to me once she realized I would accompany Wynne to her destination, on the condition that I not reveal it to anyone else."

Eingana's mouth closed. "Oh," she said. "That makes sense." Good thinking on Aveline's part, she mused. That woman certainly seemed to have her head on straight.

Cullen gestured towards the brilliant magical spectacle still emitting its waterfall-roar behind Eingana. "And it seems you have the situation well in hand. Although..." His eyes went to Anders.

"Yes," Eingana said. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

Wynne squinted into the brightly glowing field. "Anders?" she said softly. "He is trapped with Michael?"

Eingana nodded grimly.

"Oh dear," Wynne said.

"How did that happen?" Isabela asked in surprise.

"As Anders was casting the spell, the entity took control of Hawke and pulled him into it," Eingana said. "It was too late to stop it. There was nothing any of us could have done."

Wynne frowned. "That will make things more difficult."

"No doubt," Eingana said dryly. She cleared her throat. "This is Fenris, by the way, and Merrill."

Wynne suddenly seemed to notice the other two elves watching her, one carefully and one shyly. She smiled at Fenris.

"Greetings," Wynne said.

"Enchanter," Fenris replied somewhat stiltedly.

Varric rolled his eyes. "She's one of the good mages, broody," he whispered to Fenris, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

"Please, call me Wynne," the mage said warmly. Fenris seemed to relax a little and nodded to her, but when she had looked away the elf muttered to Varric, "And yet she is an abomination."

Merrill curtsied gracefully. "_Andaran atish'an, _Enchanter Wynne," she said. "I have heard a lot about you. I hope you can help us."

"I do too," Wynne said gravely. "But I must admit I was rather counting on Anders's help. Without him... hmmm..."

She stepped forward and placed one hand on one of pillars of the central circle. The enchanter bowed her head and concentrated. The crystal globe atop the pillar briefly sparkled with inner light, tinted Fade blue like Justice's energy. A similar glow flickered at the apex of Wynne's staff. Silently, the enchanter moved to the next pillar and repeated her examination.

"Um," Varric began, but stopped when Cullen shook his head.

"Give her a few moments," the templar said quietly. Varric nodded.

"Oh," Isabela piped up as if suddenly remembering something. "We brought you food." She proceeded to unsling a satchel from her back.

Varric, Merrill, Eingana, and Fenris, all watching Wynne with assorted expressions of nervousness, fascination, and mistrust, turned at once. Reaver stood up with them, wagging his tail and barking to ensure he wouldn't be ignored.

"I, ah, don't suppose you brought any lamb bones?" Eingana asked, and Isabela giggled.

"No, I didn't. Sorry."

Reaver let out a disapproving whine that became a growl when Eingana turned to him. The elf held up her hands placatingly.

"Reaver, I swear to you, once the _several_ more pressing matters at hand are taken care of, I will not rest until you have every lamb bone you have been promised, with _interest_."

Reaver gave her a hard stare, but eventually he woofed his assent. Eingana smiled.

"You can cash in one of your belly rubs now, if you want," Merrill offered as Isabela drew several loaves of bred and a wheel of hard cheese from her satchel. Reaver barked happily and promptly rolled over onto his back with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

Cullen passed around a waterskin he'd brought with him as the battle-weary elves and dwarf hungrily tore into the food Isabela had brought. Merrill ate handfuls of bread with one hand while she rubbed Reaver's belly with the other. As it turned out, during Isabela's hasty raid of the Hawke estate's larder, she had snagged several pieces of jerky with Reaver in mind. The dog was soon gnawing away happily, and it was difficult to tell if his growls of pleasure arose more from Merrill's belly rub or the jerky.

"That's a lucky dog," Cullen observed wryly, watching the spectacle of the massive Mabari hound stretched out on his back with the slender Dalish elf crouched next to him. With his legs extended, Reaver might easily have been longer than Merrill was tall. "I miss Ferelden, sometimes. The dogs here-"

Merrill and Eingana both nodded enthusiastically and made noises of agreement around the food in their mouths.

Varric swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese he'd crammed into his mouth moments ago, hardly pausing to chew. "Must be nice to be a dog," he mused.

Reaver let out a series of spirited barks around his jerky, the meaning of which was entirely clear.

Fenris, eating in a somewhat more controlled fashion that nevertheless carried a certain wolfish abandon, took a long drink from the waterskin and wiped his mouth on his wrist before passing it to Eingana. "What time is it?" he asked Cullen. "And what is the condition of the city?"

The templar's amused smile withered at once. Everyone else looked up, waiting for his answer. On the far side of the ritual area, still conducting her investigation of the circle of pillars, Wynne let out a small sigh that nobody heard.

"It was long past sundown when we entered the estate. As for the city," Cullen said morosely, "it's not good. Both Hightown and Lowtown are largely overrun by demons."

"What?" Eingana said sharply, as Merrill let out a gasp. "_Overrun_? How can that be?"

"The situation was grave when we entered the estate high above," Cullen said. "Though the city seems to have stabilized, I fear what may happen if things get any worse than they already are."

"Most of Hightown is holed up in the Viscount's Keep," Isabela added. "Aveline's keeping order, and some templars are helping her – even _following her orders_." She smiled and gestured to Cullen with her head. "Our boy here had something to do with that, as I understand it."

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding looking at Isabela. "I left Knight-Lieutenants Karras and Thrask with the Guard-Captain with strict orders to obey her every command," he elaborated. "I would have preferred to check in with her when I returned to Kirkwall with Wynne, or at least with _someone_ in authority to find out more. However, we believed the situation at the Hawke estate was too sensitive to delay any further. To my knowledge, Knight-Commander Meredith remains at the Gallows, and with no viscount and only the city guard to keep the aristocracy in check – let alone protected from demons – the keep is a... shall we say, an _incident_ waiting to happen."

"What about Lowtown?" Varric asked pointedly. "I'm sure you're aware that its population is at least triple that of Hightown."

"Aveline sent messengers to Lowtown requesting they evacuate to the Keep as well," Cullen answered.

Varric snorted. "_That_ must have gone over well."

Cullen nodded with a grimace. "A few Lowtowners heeded her advice; most did not. A substantial number have gathered in and around the Hanged Man, and the gangs there have united in the interest of mutual protection – temporarily, I'm sure."

"You'd be proud of them, Varric," Isabela added. "The Carta and Coterie have agreed to a ceasefire."

Varric looked at her with his mouth open. "No."

"Yes," Isabela said. "Once the demons are gone – _if_ they get gone, that is – they will of course go back to cutting each other's throats in the night, and such. But not before that. They all have interests in Kirkwall, and they all stand to lose if the city goes up in flames."

Varric shook his head in amazement, and even Fenris looked impressed.

"Hang on," Eingana said. "I know this is a bit off topic, but – the Carta is in Kirkwall? The dusters from Orzammar?"

"The very same," Varric said.

"Wow," Eingana commented. "Here I thought I'd done some house cleaning when I was there during the Blight. Tip of the proverbial iceberg, I guess."

Varric let out a bark of sarcastic laughter. He accepted the waterskin from Eingana and drank thirstily.

"If the Lowtowners have united, it must be bad," the dwarf said when he'd swallowed with a grateful exhalation. He handed the waterskin to Merrill, who took a few sips herself before offering some to Reaver.

"It is," Cullen confirmed. "When Wynne and I travelled through Lowtown before we met Isabela at the tavern, the streets were mostly empty except for wandering demons. Lesser ones, mostly. The more powerful spirits had mostly migrated to Hightown – the city guard and templars were still battling them there in a number of places."

"What about the alienage?" Merrill asked anxiously. "Were the elves safe?"

Cullen gave her a wary look. "The elves appeared to be faring better than the rest of Lowtown, from what Wynne and I saw," he replied. "There had apparently been some incident earlier that prompted several to flee the alienage, but everything was quiet when we passed. They had protected themselves – with magic."

Merrill nodded, clearly relieved and seemingly unaware of the piercing look Cullen was giving her. Eingana cleared her throat, and Cullen's gaze fell on her.

"And what is your professional opinion on the situation, Knight-Captain?" Eingana asked. "Is it too late? Is Kirkwall doomed?"

"Not at all," Cullen said in surprise. He rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully. "Though... it will take no small effort of cooperation on the part of the mages and templars if things are to be resolved to the best extent possible."

"Good luck with that," Varric scoffed.

Cullen nodded sourly. "I imagine Meredith must be positively apoplectic with me by now, for not having reported to her at once with a powerful mage in my charge."

The templar almost sounded like he wanted to add "And I no longer care." He refrained from further comment on Meredith's possible displeasure with him, however, lapsing instead into pensive silence.

Presently Wynne made her way completely around the ritual area and returned to where the group was resting. She did not look hopeful.

"What do you think, Wynne?" Eingana asked carefully before anyone else could speak.

The enchanter let out a tired sigh. "This... _vault_... is formidable, indeed," she began. "It will be extraordinarily difficult to open."

"How does it work?" Cullen asked curiously. "I've never seen its like before. I never even knew this chamber existed."

"I suspect few do," Wynne said. "In fact, it's possible that everyone who does is here, right now. I imagine even the Imperial magistrates who once ruled Kirkwall allowed knowledge of its existence only to a secret elite. The sheer magnitude of the power that may be concentrated in this room is _staggering_. It should have been sealed long ago, and I have reason to believe it was. It may be that only the tremors following the initial shock of the old network reopened the way to reach this place, and I sincerely wish it had remained buried."

"What about the vault?" Eingana asked.

"Justice has induced a phenomenon called a discharge loop," Wynne explained. "The power in the network has bled away over the centuries, but some dregs remained here and there. They were few and far between – mere raindrops in what must have once been a storm of incomprehensible forces. Even so, the network is so large and runs so deep that these dregs, once collected, constitute enough magical power that I suspect it would take the entire Kirkwall Circle and all the lyrium they have in storage to conjure its match."

"Maker's mercy," Cullen whispered.

"Such volumes of raw force can be manipulated only by the network itself," Wynne continued. "Justice realized this, and that was his purpose in altering various nearby nodes. Through his modifications, the dregs were collected and carried here, to the nexus. The magic vents continuously from the floor of this chamber and flows upward in a channel, defined by the rim of the basin. Once it returns to the network, the energy is reabsorbed, reflected back into the nexus by the sigils Justice inscribed at the nodes, and directed through that same channel in a circular path. It is a self-perpetuating process that may continue indefinitely if it is not somehow interrupted."

All eyes, even Reaver's, were locked on the reversed waterfall of light roaring upwards from floor to ceiling. Anders and Hawke, suspended in the turbulent river, seemed small in comparison to the vastness of the discharge. Streamers of power flowed and curved endlessly around them, always bending away just short of contacting skin.

"The volume and character of the magic that flows here warps the nature of space and time within the channel," Wynne said. "Anders and Michael are caught in a kind of stasis. To them, were they able to perceive the world, time would seem to advance at such an infinitesimally slow rate that it would appear to have stopped entirely. The natural world-force that keeps us anchored to the earth and bids us fall when we jump has no presence whatsoever within the bounds of that flow, and so they hover within it, dragged along and locked within this chamber by the magic alone. The same effect perfectly reflects all external magic, and would kill instantly any who entered the channel. Only light is immune."

Wynne shook her head in troubled astonishment. "It is a masterful piece of magic, one of the most intricate and perfectly executed I have ever seen. I doubt I could replicate the effect so well under the same conditions myself. Justice knew very, very well what he was doing. There is only one thing that does not fit."

Cullen started to speak, but Eingana cut him off. "What is that?" she asked.

"Anders and Michael are both still alive and, as far as I can tell, uninjured," Wynne said, and the amazement in her voice was palpable. "I cannot imagine how the spirit managed _that_! Michael should have been atomized the moment the spell was cast, and Anders along with him due to the wyrd's interference. And yet they not only survived the initial flare, but they continue to exist within the channel, even now!"

Merrill blushed rather flagrantly and averted her eyes. Varric, Eingana, and Isabela managed to avoid looking pointedly at her, and so neither Cullen nor Wynne was any the wiser. Cullen, in fact, seemed confused about something else.

"I'm sorry," he spoke up with a faint undercurrent of suspicion, "but who or what is this _Justice_? You've used that word several times now, as if it were the name of the mage who cast the spell. What can you mean by this? Was it not Anders who set up the nodes and induced the initial surge?"

Wynne looked at him in surprise, then at Eingana. The elf shifted uncomfortably and said nothing.

Varric made a weary, impatient noise. "I'll tell him," he said, and beckoned the confused templar to follow him as he marched away into the gloomy periphery of the chamber, out of earshot.

"Do you think this... vault, as you put it... _can_ be opened?" Fenris asked Wynne.

"I believe so, yes," Wynne said. "But we will need more mages. Many more. Or a great deal of lyrium."

Eingana narrowed her eyes at the floor as she suddenly seemed to think of something. "What about Anders and Hawke?" she asked, looking up. "You said that time would appear to them to have almost stopped, 'were they able to perceive the world.' Why can't they?"

Wynne shook her head. "That is the other problem," she said softly. "They are no longer here."

Elves and human exchanged a number of confused glances amongst themselves.

"What?" Isabela asked. "Who's not here?"

"Anders and Michael," Wynne said. She gestured inwards, towards the silent, drifting bodies of the men in question as if this explained what she meant.

Eingana was the first to realize. Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. "Oh," she whispered. "Crap."

"What?" Merrill asked. "What does she mean?"

"So even if we did break the vault..." Eingana said softly.

Wynne nodded. "Then we would still have a problem. We may have to... go after them. The wyrd must be dealt with first, after all. We cannot just _let_ it out, even if it is dormant."

"Would one of you please speak plainly?" Fenris said irritably. "What do you mean by 'they are not here'?"

"Anders and Michael are alive, but asleep," Wynne explained. "Their minds are not present in this world. They wander the Fade."

"Shit," Isabela said in surprise.

Merrill's hand went to her mouth. "Merciful Creators," she whispered.

"Michael may have fought the wyrd for control of his body in this realm, with varying possibilities of success," Wynne said. "In that environment, however, there is no means at all by which he might even try to resist its influence. That is its home, and where it is most powerful. I fear for Anders, and for Justice as well."

**ασυνέχεια**

When Justice regained sensory awareness, he was home.

The sensation was shocking at first. He had not perceived the mutable environment and shifting currents of power in the Fade for many years – not since he had crossed the Veil with Hawke to search for Feynriel. Justice had felt echoes of the Fade from time to time as Anders dreamed, but it was never the same. Cast adrift in the Fade in dreams was a far cry from breathing its metaphysical waters himself. One was a distant echo, the other a thunderous, reverberating symphony.

Justice opened his eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell-taste-sensation of his homeworld was simultaneously comforting and unfamiliar, a paradox of sweet and strange. In front of him and all around was a yellow-grey wilderness, clouds of undirected thought and formless magic studded with wandering islands of clarity. Some were very nearby, spiky and ornate with the twisted structures that covered them or framing out-of-place simulacra of the real world. Others were lost in hazy distance. Beyond those farthest points of solidity, at the limit of perception, was the familiar empty skyline of the Black City.

Justice's own island was simple and relatively typical of the Fade: a barren brown wasteland, largely featureless but for a few twisted struts of not-quite-rock and a looming sculpture of a thing that might have been a creature composed of legs and four bladed arms, but no head. The horizon was startlingly close, perhaps twenty paces distant, and beyond it was only fog.

Justice tried to turn around to look behind him, and it was then that he realized he was bound. Within him, the part of him that was Anders twitched away from the beginnings of a creeping panic.

He tried to move his hands and could not. He could move his head from side to side, enough to see that manacles of noiseless violet lightning held his wrists locked in place, spread out to each side. Justice looked down and saw that his ankles were similarly confined. The magic spiraled up his legs and around his waist. Though the bonds appeared to hover just beyond his robe without actually contacting him anywhere, Justice discovered with increasing dismay that no matter how hard he exerted himself, physically or magically, with the efforts of his body or with the Fade-shaping power of a spirit's mind, he could move no part of his body at all save his head.

Then vivid crimson flashed across his field of view, and Justice started. A billowing red ribbon, at least twice as wide as he was tall, had encircled his island in a languid motion that somehow lasted only a single heartbeat. The ribbon fluttered with a whisper of noise and contracted slightly, pressing against the edge of the wasteland. His surroundings were largely cut off from view by the undulating curtain; only the hemisphere of Fadescape above him remained visible, and in the far distance Justice made out something else moving – a glittering band of stars, or perhaps a long stream of crystalline magic that flickered only intermittently with pulses of power along its length. It was a third of the way across the sky when he saw it, and as Justice watched, the far-off discontinuity continued to crawl in a gradual orbit of his island. Slowly, it extended itself further and further, inscribing a meridian of glimmering energy, noticeable largely because of its colour – azure in a sea of yellow and brown and grey.

Anders's memory stirred, recalling strange dreams and visions over the last few days. Justice barely had time to begin sifting through them for possible insight before the magical bonds on his wrists and ankles ignited with an audible crackle, contracting around him painfully and lifting him away from the surface of the island.

Justice let out a groan of pain, and it seemed like the entire island shuddered with black power in response. The scarlet curtain expressed tendrils of smoky, ebony _something_ inwards from its bounds that crawled over the wasteland towards him with clear, predatory intent. Starlight seemed to sparkle here and there among the tendrils, as if they'd been woven from the night sky itself.

Justice and Anders, two beings of one mind, together knew fear as the creeping fingers approached. There could be only one source for this bizarre display.

But where was Hawke? Had he been subsumed so utterly that the shell of his mortal mind no longer existed, even for the wyrd to dance about like a puppet?

The wyrd's crawling black arms stopped short of touching Justice and instead turned at abrupt right angles, spiraling upwards around him in a helix of smoke and magic. He drifted back down to hover just above the surface of the island. Then Justice felt hot, damp breath on his neck, and hands snaking around his waist. A familiar beard bristled against the side of his face, and the mixed odour of blood and sweat arose.

"Hawke," Justice muttered. "There you are."

Inside him, Anders wept, but Justice would never openly display such weakness if he could help it. Misery was a mortal emotion, a _human_ emotion, and while Anders was human, Justice was not.

"Justice," Hawke whispered back. Lips pressed softly against his neck, and Justice instinctively tried to tilt his head away. He couldn't. "I'm so glad you're here. How things have changed, huh? Look how far we've come."

"Little has changed, creature."

"Oh, but you're wrong," Hawke said silkily, and he drifted around to Justice's front. "_Much_ has changed. We're in the Fade, as I'm sure you've noticed, and in the Fade there is only one rule..."

Hawke leaned forward to brush his lips up along Justice's jaw to his ear. Fingers stroked the side of his face, tipped by wicked claws – not blades of energy or even the shaped and pointed metal of his gauntlets, but real, razor-sharp claws growing where human fingernails should have been.

"_Everything_ changes," Hawke breathed in Justice's ear, following his words with his tongue, and the spirit could not suppress a shudder. His radiant blue eyes examined the warrior with sour distaste.

The black smoke seeped from the very pores of Hawke's skin. He wore nothing but the cotton shorts he customarily wore to bed and under his clothes. The wyrd's fetid magic rolled across his shoulders, down his arms, and over his chest like mist over the surface of a lake. His eyes, curiously, were bright green, entirely human, pupils dilated only slightly.

Even so, Justice wasn't fooled for an instant. This was not Michael Hawke. This was the wyrd, wearing Hawke's mind, the image of his body, the way the real Hawke wore clothing and armour.

Far away, among the remote islands, the glittering circlet of blue-white magic had encircled the island. It remained distant and inert, twinkling like the stars of the real world every now and then.

Hawke traced the tip of one claw up Justice's neck to his chin. The spirit twitched in pain when he felt a burning collar of needle-sharp pain around his neck. The magical bands around his wrists forced his arms down from their outstretched positions to rest at his sides.

"So our positions are reversed," Hawke observed softly. "How does it feel to be collared, Justice?" His other hand drifted down the front of Anders's robe. He squeezed slightly, and Justice's bonds pulsed inward in tandem with a painful burning sensation. "How does it feel to be _bound_?"

Some of Anders's impatient snark fought its way to the surface. "So far? Excruciatingly tedious," Justice snapped back. "If you mean to torture me, congratulations. You're succeeding spectacularly. Have you finally gotten bored with inflicting actual pain? Truth be told I'd much prefer _that_ to this drivel."

Hawke's eyes drifted half-closed and he smirked as he ran his hands down Justice's arms, wrapping his claws around the spirit's forearms just above the bonds.

"Oh, I know," he murmured sensually. "You just can't wait for the pain. Neither can I. But don't you worry, my fiery little spirit. We have all the time in the world to play."

Hawke spread his arms, and the wyrd's darkness rose around him, shifting in and out of the red curtain.

"Here, we are limitless," Hawke intoned, voice resonant with power. The very Fade around them shook with its thrum. "We are always and never, eternal and instantaneous, everywhere and nowhere. We _are_ you, spirit, and you are us."

"Yes, yes, and indestructible and the horizon and so on and so forth," Justice sniped irritably. "You've said as much, a few times now."

Hawke's eyes narrowed and his body shuddered with black magic. His lip curled, his fingers flexed, his pupils dilated almost to eclipse his irises with an abrupt pulse. He hissed softly in anger, and his breath smelled of blood and saffron.

Justice stared back at him, sneering himself. "Why do you insult Hawke with this travesty of his form, wyrd?" he taunted. "I believe Anders has noted already that the true Michael Hawke would rip you apart with his bare hands were you to fight him on even footing."

Hawke's hand lifted to grasp Justice by the chin, and his claws pierced the spirit's face in a number of places. Justice didn't flinch. Hawke leaned in close until their faces were inches apart.

"Listen to me carefully, Justice," Hawke whispered to him. "You may think you are back in your own world, and that you're stronger here, but you are wrong. You are wrong about so many things. In a sense, I _am_ the wyrd, because its power is mine..."

He raised his other hand and the fetid blackness around them pulsed in response, and the bonds of magic around Justice's ankles contracted. When he could no longer stifle a groan of pain, Hawke relented.

"But I am also Michael Hawke," he went on. "You're in _my_ world now, Justice, and I'm going to _break_ you. You will be mine, here and elsewhere, forever – and you'll never interfere with me, or Anders, _ever_ again."

Inside him, Anders was choked with fear and despair. Justice, however, was furious.

"You're certainly welcome to try, foul creature," he growled defiantly. He wrenched his head out of Hawke's grip and spat in his face.

Hawke recoiled with a look of disgust. He wiped the spittle from his face with a snarl and punched Justice hard in the jaw.

The blow hit him with the force of a battering ram. Justice could feel the bones of his host's face crunch, and while the pain was agonizing, he mustered a bloody, brittle smile. This, he thought, would be a test of endurance like no other. He vowed never to give in, even for a moment. Somewhere deep inside him he felt Anders's agreement, even through their shared pain.

"You... will... _never_ break us, wyrd," Justice panted, words slurred slightly around his shattered jaw and loosened teeth. "Anders may still love you even through his fear, but Justice has no such weakness. I am strong enough for both of us."

Hawke grabbed Justice by the shoulders and leaned in close. He breathed softly over the spirit's ruined jaw and dark, oily smoke crawled over it. To his surprise, Justice felt the bones of his face contorting back into their proper configuration. The intense pain lasted only a moment before his face was fully healed.

"We'll see, won't we?" Hawke said conversationally. "Spirited defiance is hot." He brushed his face against Justice's with a lustful sniff. "Just as hot as submissive pleading and begging. This is going to be _fun_."

He kissed Justice harshly, forcing his tongue into the spirit's mouth with eager abandon. The reek of blood and sweat became overpowering. Justice bit down on Hawke's tongue as hard as he could, but it didn't seem to bother him at all. On the contrary, deep rumbles of pleasure welled up from Hawke's chest. Justice could taste Hawke's blood as the warrior thoroughly explored his mouth. He tried to force Hawke's tongue out of his mouth with his own, but it only seemed to excite Hawke further.

His clawed hands crawled over Justice's back, cutting through the layered fabric of Anders's robe. He pressed their bodies together, grinding his hips against Justice's waist, indifferent to his struggles and grunts of protest. Stripped of his magic as he was, the spirit was no match for Hawke's brute strength. The magical bonds prevented him from moving his hands, so he couldn't even try to fight Hawke off.

Even worse than that, however, was the cold, fetid magic of the wyrd Justice could feel oozing from the warrior's bare skin, slithering over his body like a nest of hungry snakes. He fought to remain in control of himself, but with Hawke so close, the creature's filth was now seeping into him as well. He could feel its insidious presence gradually penetrating his body. It was becoming difficult not to panic.

Hawke groaned against his lips and at last pulled free.

"I _knew_ it," he breathed, lips bloodied by his savaged tongue brushing over Justice's face. "I _knew_ even a spirit of Justice could feel fear. That's so fucking hot. Ohh... _wow_. You smell so good. So good. Keep it up, my fiery little spirit."

Justice growled in frustration and tried to headbutt Hawke, but the warrior dodged easily with a throaty laugh and licked bestially along Justice's face, smearing it with his own blood. His claws scraped down the spirit's back, shredding the robe and gouging his flesh. Justice writhed in anger and pain and tried again to find enough magic within himself and Anders to burst free of the magical bonds. There was none to be had.

Justice could feel the length of Hawke's erection pressed against his hip, pulsing with the warrior's heartbeat, straining against the fabric of his shorts. Clawed fingers slipped into his robe through the rents they had slashed, creeping down to cup his buttocks.

"What is Anders wearing under this renegade's coat, I wonder?" Hawke murmured between heated kisses against Justice's neck and jaw. He ran his tongue under Justice's chin to his other side and sucked hungrily on his neck. The heat of his mouth where it had been was quickly overcome by the clammy chill of the wyrd's essence, exuding from Hawke's every pore. Justice closed his eyes with a shudder of horror.

"Let's get rid of that," Hawke said. "It's just in the way."

He spread his hands, scratching Justice's butt and lower back in a few places with his claws, and with a twinge of magic Anders's robe had flashed to dust. Hawke raised his hands and Justice was forced to follow suit, arms dragged to extend outwards by the bonds at his wrists. He was naked but for the pair of Hawke's shorts Anders had put on the previous night, his body on display for the warrior.

Hawke growled his pleasure as he ran his hands over Justice's body, outlining the planes of the mage's lightly muscled chest and running the tips of his claws through the dusting of blonde fuzz that covered it. He traced one claw along the ridge of pectoral muscle to Justice's armpit, sifting through the tuft of hair that grew there and curling his fingers around the graceful bulge of bicep. His hands smoothed down Justice's sides, where a memory of only a day before that nevertheless seemed a lifetime ago told him the mage was intensely ticklish. Justice's shiver was confirmation, and Hawke bared his teeth in a feral grin.

"Oooh," Hawke said lewdly. "Ticklish... I remember... Anders is _very_ ticklish. And so must you be, since Anders is your host. Have you ever been tickled, Justice?"

Hawke danced his fingertips lightly up Justice's sides, pricking here and there with his claws with tantalizing gentleness. Justice writhed beneath his touch, face contorting in agonized, involuntary excitement. Hawke watched with greedy pleasure as Justice panted hard, determined not to give him the satisfaction of laughter.

Tormenting the spirit playfully like this aroused Hawke intensely, and his cock was rock-hard in his shorts, throbbing and eager to penetrate. Still, he could be patient. The longer he drew out his first climax, the better the anticipation would feel and the more explosively rapturous the event itself would be.

Hawke bent down to tease the metal ring that pierced one hardened nipple with his tongue, and a wicked smirk crossed his face at Justice's startled gasp. Hawke sucked gently on his nipple, relishing Justice's bucking efforts to get away from him. He straightened and kissed the mage hard, pulling back when Justice thrust his head forward in an attempt to fend Hawke off.

"Aww... is the big bad spirit afraid to admit he's just as turned on by this as I am?" Hawke mocked. "I know Anders must be loving every second of it, and you two are one... so you are, too. Am I right?"

Justice ground his teeth together and refused to answer. He made to spit at Hawke again, but the warrior backhanded him brutally across the face before he could. Justice let out a ragged breath and spat blood to one side.

"Don't let yourself feel any pleasure," Hawke said, his arch, teasing tone contrasting bizarrely with the violence of his behaviour. "You'll never forgive yourself."

One clawed hand reached around Justice's abdomen to trail ever-so-lightly up his spine. Hawke's wicked talon was sharp enough to slice Justice's skin like paper, but his touch was accompanied by dancing worms of red magic that scorched the spirit's entire body with ecstatic pleasure. Justice thrashed and shuddered in Hawke's grip, unable to stifle his moans of delight. He burned with shame and rage that he could become so pliant at Hawke's mere touch, but _Maker_, whatever he was doing felt so _good_. Better than anything he or Anders had ever experienced. Energy washed through their whole body with tempestuous bliss, concentrated in a roaring vortex at the tip of Hawke's claw as it drifted up his back.

Justice's cock throbbed in his shorts, achingly hard, harder than Anders had ever been in his life. Accustomed to retreating into dormancy whenever Anders and Hawke had sex, Justice now felt bitter surprise and shame at his own desperate desire. During those few moments of mind-bending pleasure, he wanted nothing more than to reach down and stroke himself to messy, copious orgasm.

After far too brief a time, Hawke reached his neck and lifted his claw away, and the maddening pleasure abated. The lack of sensation was almost agonizing in its emptiness. Justice panted and whimpered in dismay, hating himself for wishing the warrior hadn't stopped.

Hawke leaned in close and trailed a claw down the spirit's face. Justice jerked in anticipation, but there was no accompanying rapturous storm this time, and the disappointment bit into him deeply.

"Did you like that?" Hawke asked softly, and against his will, unable to speak, Justice nodded. He stared idiotically at Hawke's shoulder, trying to recall the rage he'd felt, his vow of defiance until the end. It wouldn't come. All he could do was yearn in silence and numbness for that blissful, carnal touch.

"Do you want some more?" Hawke asked, and Justice nodded again, furious and humiliated.

Hawke pressed warm lips against his ear and whispered "What do you say?"

His claws crept up Justice's body, wandering over the bunched muscles of his back, promising ecstasy.

Justice licked his dry lips and mumbled "Please."

He felt Hawke's cruel grin against his ear, and then claws on his neck. He tensed, eager for the wave he sensed was coming to crest over him and bring him more of that delirious pleasure.

Then it came, and it was instead a horrific agony so intense that a tortured scream was ripped from Justice's throat and went on, and on. It felt like his entire body was being stabbed with jagged needles. Every nerve frayed and burned like the sun. His whole body convulsed with the ghastly pain. Again and again he reached for his magic, insane and desperate for any dreg of power – to counter the malevolent force that gripped him, to fight Hawke off some other way, to snuff out his own consciousness, anything. But he could do nothing, not even hold back his howls of anguish. He would gladly have cast his own body and mind asunder, and so would Anders, if only to end their suffering. Still there was no respite.

Slowly, each second a lifetime of pain, Hawke's claw trailed down Justice's spine, retracing the superficial cut he'd made with the pleasure on his way up. Justice wondered how there could _ever_ have been pleasure in the world, in this world or any other. Nothing in existence could possibly mute or assuage the excruciating torture he felt now. No balm could possibly ever soothe this burn.

Finally, after an eternity of madness, it was over. Justice's screams died away into sobs, and he collapsed, trembling, held upright only by the violet magic around his wrists. His head was bowed forward, too weak to look into his tormentor's eyes, and so all he saw was Hawke's feet and the wasted surface of the island. The blue light of his eyes was thready and pallid.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Hawke said lightly. "Pleasure and pain? Anders _loves_ this kind of thing, but we've never done it in the Fade before. I imagine I've just _blown his mind_. He's experiencing his wildest fantasies!"

Justice's face twisted in hatred.

"Really, you should be happy for him, Justice," Hawke said contemplatively. "Anders deserves to enjoy himself at least every once in a while, don't you think? He can't fight for the mages if he's exhausted and stressed."

"Bastard," Justice said hoarsely, his throat painfully raw from screaming. "You fucking bastard. I'll kill you. I'll _kill_ you."

Hawke made a disappointed noise. "Pity. I guess I did underestimate you after all. It'll take more, much more than that to break _you_, Justice. Obviously. Should have guessed. But that's okay. I'm just getting started."

Justice cringed and whined in terror at Hawke's words.

"I'm tempted to cut out your tongue, just so I don't have to put up with your puling," Hawke mused. "But there is so _much_ I'm going to want you to do with it..."

He lifted Justice's chin with his hand and placed a soft, affectionate kiss on the mage's lips. Coolness spread through his body, soothing the residual throbbing aches and spasms of pain that wracked him. He moaned in relief, and didn't try to resist when Hawke's tongue entered his mouth to entwine with his. Unconsciously, or perhaps allowing some of Anders's personality to emerge in his weakened state, Justice started kissing back.

Hawke groaned appreciatively into the kiss and wrapped his arms around Justice to slide his hands down the spirit's back. He was careful to avoid injuring with his claws, and his touch brought neither pleasure nor pain, but simple sensation. His fingers reached the waistband of Justice's shorts and slipped inside them to caress the globes of his buttocks.

"Hey," Hawke murmured, breaking the kiss. He stepped back and looked down. Justice stared apathetically.

"Are these... _mine_?" Hawke said with incredulous amusement as he ran his fingers around Justice's waist, over his shorts. "They _are_! You're wearing my smalls!" He laughed merrily. "You dirty, sneaky boy!"

He pulled Justice's hips into his and ground against him. Justice groaned and struggled weakly, trying to get his head away from Hawke's lips and tongue exploring his neck, but he met no more success than he had previously.

"Just like Anders," Hawke said amusedly against Justice's neck. "I bet he sniffs the dirty ones I put in the laundry basket while I'm not in the room." He groaned and caught Justice's lower lip between his teeth. "He told me he loves the way I smell... mostly like sweat, blood, musk... spunk, of course. You like it too, I bet. You're in the same body."

Smirking, Hawke drew away and forced Justice down to his knees, yanking on the bonds with magic to get the spirit where he wanted him. Justice's hands ended up behind his back, locked there by the intertwining coils of purple energy. The wyrd's oily black essence curled over his bare calves and up his thighs, and he twitched in disgusted horror.

Hawke grabbed Justice by his head and shoved his face against the bulge in his shorts. Justice's angry growl was muffled somewhat by the fabric and rigid flesh suddenly forced against his mouth.

"Anders said it was the smell of my dick he liked the most," Hawke said huskily. He reached down to fondle himself through his shorts and with his other hand pushed Justice's face against the joint of his thigh. His cock was pressed against the mage's cheek, separated only by a thin layer of fabric.

Hawke bent over and placed a hand on Justice's back. He arched his hand, tugging with the wyrd's magic, and Justice had no choice but to inhale as his lungs were forcibly inflated. His nostrils flooded with Hawke's scent – overpowering musk, with undercurrents of blood and magic.

"What do you think?" Hawke asked as he straightened, as if requesting Justice's opinion on his choice of wallpaper. "Nice and musky? Needs more sweat...? I'm not quite horned up enough yet. As for the spunk, well... we'll get to that, of course."

His voice grew dangerous, and he shoved Justice's face into his groin with renewed force. "Come on, Justice. Get to work. I'm not going to get all hot and sweaty like you like it without your help."

Justice snarled hatefully and tried yet again to free himself, but he couldn't move at all. His hands were immobilized behind his back and the collar around his neck prevented him from pulling his head away. Anders was irresistibly aroused by the masculine reek that Hawke had forced them to absorb, but Justice only felt a welcome resurgence of his defiance and refusal to yield. He tried to turn his head to get a clean breath – the bland acridity of the Fade, the dusty mildew of the wasteland, anything but this. It was no use. His cock was still rock solid, creating a rather obvious tent in his shorts. He was enraged and humiliated, and he could do little more than gnash his teeth in powerless fury.

Justice felt a claw creeping up his neck to tease around behind his ear, and he tensed as a whisper of pleasure tingled through his skull.

"If you're a good boy," Hawke said softly to him, "I might let you have some more. _If_ you're good. If you're bad, however..."

A claw from his other hand trailed up the other side of his neck, and Justice felt a distant reverberation of ringing, brutal agony. The twin sensations of pleasure and pain warred in his head and down his body, making him pant with simultaneous discomfort and enjoyment.

"...then you'll have to be punished," Hawke finished in a breathy whisper. "Is that what you want? More punishment?"

Justice cowered in terror. "No," he gasped. "Please. Please don't do that again." A spirit of Justice, pleading for mercy, he thought bitterly. Disgraceful. All the same, he wondered how far he would go to avoid feeling that awful soul-burn again.

"No promises," Hawke said pitilessly. "Strange... Anders likes it when I punish him. No, he _loves_ it. He thrives on it. It's unbearably sexy, when he begs me to hurt him and abuse him." He growled and ground his crotch against Justice's face eagerly. "He knows what a bad apostate he is."

Justice thrashed angrily at the word, but Hawke's grip on his head was like iron, utterly implacable. "He _deserves_ to be punished," Hawke went on heatedly. "He consorts with dangerous spirits, and lets them kill the innocent girls he tries to save."

Justice felt burning shame well up within him. He remembered Ella, all too well. He regretted what he'd done to the poor mage. But thinking of that day only made his warped, desperate need for vengeance twist and surge in his gut. Anders's old, bitter rage, his exhausted and well-worn hatreds, had long since wrapped around Justice's drive to fulfill his namesake virtue until they were intertwined and inseparable.

Justice snarled and lunged with every ounce of strength he could muster, every erg of magic he could wring from his abused, suppressed nervous system. He managed to get his teeth around the considerable bulge of Hawke's cock, intending to bite down mercilessly, but to his consternation he found he could exert only a weak pressure. His pathetic attempt at defiance only made Hawke rumble appreciatively.

"_There_ we go," Hawke said amusedly. "Feisty spirit, knows what he wants... knows his place. Mmm. I can't wait to fuck that eager throat."

Justice could taste the spreading dampness of pre-ejaculate staining Hawke's shorts, and he made to pull away in revulsion. The moment he tried, Hawke's clawed hands were suddenly gripping him by the top of his head, and he was shocked for an unbearably long moment with gut-wrenching pain. A brief, strangled cry escaped his lips.

"Remember what I said?" Hawke hissed. "If you're bad..."

Justice sagged against the warrior as the torment ended, fighting back despair and blinking away tears of pain. "What... do you... _want_?" he ground out.

"Take off my shorts," Hawke said.

Justice yanked on his hands, still locked behind his back. "I _can't_."

"With your teeth," Hawke elaborated, and Justice snarled his frustration.

"When I am freed from these accursed bonds, creature..." he began, but his threat was cut off by another tidal wave of hot agony coursing down his spine and spreading throughout his body.

"Alright! _Alright_!" he screamed, and Hawke relented. Panting in fury, Justice straightened on his knees as best as his trembling muscles could support. He leaned over to Hawke's waist and caught the waistband of his shorts with his teeth. He had to try a few times, grazing the warrior's skin with his teeth, before he got a secure grip on the fabric. He tugged downwards, twisting his head to get the shorts to stretch over the bulk of Hawke's erection. The stink of sweat and sex was overwhelming, and Justice fought to suppress the intense arousal it stirred within him. He tried not to feel too contemptuous towards Anders and his many mortal weaknesses, but it was difficult to feel any sympathy for his host when the man's lover treated them like this. True, he too was possessed, and by an ancient malevolent force rather than a noble spirit of Justice.

Still...

"There you go," Hawke murmured encouragingly. "Good boy. You're doing great."

Justice wanted to yell at the warrior to shut up, but unless he made some progress on Hawke's shorts, they would just snap back into place and he would have to start over again. After recovering from another shock of crippling, magically induced agony, probably. Gritting his teeth, Justice yanked down hard on the fabric, managing to get the waistband down to around the base of Hawke's prominent shaft, but not his balls.

"Come on, a bit further," Hawke taunted.

Trembling with rage, Justice released the waistband between his teeth and leaned in to get a better grip on the interior fabric his efforts had exposed. He caught the necessary fold on his canines and tried to pull the shorts further down, but the angle wasn't working. He, or more likely Anders, was vividly distracted by the thick, veiny cock resting against his face. Hawke watched him with his arms folded across his chest, one eyebrow raised sardonically.

Justice shuffled backwards on his knees, ignoring the uncomfortable scrape of pebbles and caustic dust against his skin, and went at Hawke's shorts again. From his new position, Justice finally had the leverage he needed to get the smallclothes down far enough to hook them under Hawke's sac.

"Oh, well done!" Hawke said in mocking congratulation.

Justice sneered at him and sat back on his haunches, spitting bits of cotton fluff from his mouth. He shook his head, trying to clear the overpowering smell of aroused human male mixed with the wyrd's rotten spiciness from his nasal passages. Hawke smirked down at him, his stiff cock protruding from his body like a majestic spear now that it was freed from its smallclothes prison. It jumped every second or so with Hawke's heartbeat, drooling a long pearly strand of pre-ejaculate from its engorged head.

Justice glared back at the warrior balefully, struggling with himself to keep his eyes on Hawke's face. To his annoyance, he couldn't seem to purge the sensations and memory of Hawke's smell from his being. Anders's thoughts remained clouded and choked with lust, and so Justice's did as well. No matter how much he tried to suppress it, the spirit could barely restrain himself from eagerly giving in to the urge to lunge forward and take that rigid, glorious length into the pit of his throat.

"And of course," Hawke commented, "I'm a man of my word. Your reward..."

Justice tensed. He straightened on his knees, hardly daring to hope Hawke was serious, and despising himself for being so transparent about it. Hawke stepped forward and grabbed him by the face. He slid a few claws into Justice's mouth, forced his teeth apart, and pushed the head of his cock, glistening with pre-ejaculate, between the mage's lips.

Justice tried to muster the willpower to stop him, or at least resist, and failed. The moment that thick knob of hard flesh entered his mouth, he was awash in a haze of mindless pleasure. He groaned, hardly thinking about what he was doing, and went down on Hawke's length eagerly. He swirled his tongue over the ridges of veins along the shaft as his lips advanced, inch by inch. Justice had vague recollections of Anders doing something similar, and of Hawke reacting positively.

All thoughts of defiance had fled the spirit's mind. His whole body shook, but this time it was with ecstasy. He felt drugged and weightless, hovering in a void of bliss and anchored to reality only by the fiery rod lodged in his throat that was the epicenter of his passion. The only rational thought in Justice's head was _don't stop. Don't let _him_ stop. Do whatever he wants. Do anything as long as he keeps this up._

Hawke was smugly pleased with Justice's sudden enthusiasm, twining his fingers through the mage's hair and growling contentedly. He rolled his head around on his shoulders with his eyes closed and shoved forward with his hips to thrust deeper.

"Yeah," he said huskily. "You like that cock, huh? You want to take it all the way? Take it as deep as you can?"

Justice nodded, crazed with lust and the ecstasy whirling through him, and Hawke's grip tightened eagerly on his head. "Good, good boy... do it, go for it. Nnnnhh... I can feel your power... _tingling._ _Fuck_, Justice, so hot and wet for me... such a hot tight throat..." His voice dissolved into incoherent growling.

Justice felt a sudden painful resistance at the back of his throat and choked, barely suppressing a gag. He persisted, thinking Hawke had no reason to cease his magic if Justice didn't stop what he himself was doing. Hawke didn't stop. Tears streamed down Justice's face from the uncomfortable pressure, but he kept at it stubbornly, urged on by the pulsations of rapturous pleasure rippling through his body.

He was rewarded when he felt the swollen head of Hawke's cock push into the pit of his throat, and it was like it touched a secret spot inside him that intensified his pleasure tenfold. Justice's groans became urgent keens, muffled by the thickness of the cock lodged in his throat. His nose was buried in the dark wiry hair at the base of the warrior's shaft. Justice inhaled deeply, and the odour of musk and sweat was intoxicating where it had revolted him mere minutes ago. He forced himself to swallow, squeezing the muscles of his throat around Hawke's length.

Hawke let out a drawn-out groan, fingers gripping Justice's head with painful tightness. "Oh, fucking _Maker_," he breathed. "Do that again."

Justice obeyed, and Hawke let out an appreciative grunt. He rolled his hips against Justice's face, grinding his cock around inside the mage's throat. "Bloody Andraste," Hawke gasped. "You're so much... so much_ better_ at this than Anders. It usually takes him at least a few minutes of practice, he _never_ gets it all on the first go. I can't believe... _ohh_ wow... can't believe it's taken us this long to hook up, Justice."

Maddened by his lust, Justice was struck by a sudden insane urge to experience Hawke ejaculating into his mouth with his full attention. He began to pull his mouth back along Hawke's length, working his tongue furiously, and Hawke rewarded him with a renewed surge of the ecstatic magic. The warrior gripped the sides of Justice's head firmly and began to thrust into his mouth. Justice shuddered at the first forceful intrusion that carried a wash of intense magical stimulation with it. He leaned forward eagerly, inviting Hawke with his eyes and the noises he could make to fuck his throat with lustful abandon.

The warrior smirked down at him and didn't disappoint.

"That's right," Hawke muttered, speeding up the rhythm of his thrusts. His balls slapped against Justice's chin repeatedly. "You love that big cock, don't you? You love how it tastes on your tongue... the feel of that hard dick meat stretching you open... you love it when I shove it down your throat."

Justice wasn't really listening to him. What he loved was the magic, and letting Hawke use his throat was a means to that end. He sucked and tongued eagerly, and each time Hawke's length pushed into the pit of his throat, it set off fireworks of rapture inside him and provoked a keening grunt. The intensity of the sensations was enough that Justice had utterly forgotten about the world, about every other thing. He never wanted it to stop.

Justice tugged on the bonds that still secured his hand behind his back and let out a plaintive whine deep in his throat. He badly wanted to touch Hawke, grab his muscular butt and caress it, pull the warrior's stiff length into his body.

Hawke snickered cruelly and released the bonds with a twitch of his finger. Justice's hands were immediately stroking Hawke's hips, the muscles of his abdomen, his lower back and buttocks. The mage squeezed and caressed wherever he could reach, throwing himself into the rhythm of Hawke's frenzied throat-fucking.

"Ohh, I know," Hawke groaned with a smirk in his voice. "You just can't get enough of that hard dick, can you, Justice?"

No. He could not. Justice closed his eyes, squeezing tears from his eyelids that had welled up at the uncomfortable pressure in his throat.

"I know what you want," Hawke said softly, stroking a claw down the mage's cheek, watching it flex in and out with the suction of his pumping length. Justice's eyes opened, radiant blue, and locked on to Hawke's vivid green. "You want my spunk. You want to feel me explode in your mouth. You want to taste it. Am I right?"

Justice nodded, eagerly. His glowing eyes were hooded with lust as he stared at Hawke, exhorting him silently to grant him his release. He wanted it, badly. Throughout his long, long existence, he had never wanted anything more.

Hawke pulled his cock out of Justice's mouth with a long, slick motion.

"Breathe," he said.

His shaft glistened wetly with saliva and pre-ejaculate in the off light of the Fade. Trails of slippery fluid clung between the head and Justice's lips as the mage took a few much-needed gasps of air. Hawke smacked Justice in the face with his cock a few times, leaving smears of spit behind, and then pushed himself back in. Justice groaned his approval, shuddering with the magically-induced euphoria, and they fell back into their established frenetic rhythm.

It wasn't more than a minute later that Justice felt Hawke's clawed grip tightening on his head, his pounding thrusts speeding up, his breath coming in ever harsher pants and grunts. Justice squeezed Hawke's butt and moaned in anticipation, feeling the warrior's eruption imminent.

"You're mine, Justice," Hawke growled as his balls clenched and his cock began to pulse. "_Mine._" He let out a snarl as he shoved himself into Justice as hard as he could, jetting hot, salty fluid down the spirit's throat. He kept up his thrusting even as Justice choked and gagged, desperate for breath but forced to swallow. Justice's fingers trembled on Hawke's flank, sliding down his thighs, weakened by the bright burst of intense pleasure Hawke's magic induced.

Hawke continued pumping his cock in and out of Justice's mouth until he was spent, and even then kept it up. For a few moments, Justice was too weak to resist, rendered insensate by the intensity of the sensations wracking his body. Then he tried to push Hawke's hips away from him, and with a crackle of painful magic his hands were yanked behind him, bound securely and implacably once again.

Justice made an angry noise and tried to pull his head back, but Hawke just laughed at him and gripped him tighter, still thrusting. He stopped taking care to avoid puncturing Justice's skin with his claws, and the spirit winced in pain.

The pleasure of Hawke's magic had faded, and Justice was slowly coming back to himself. Each moment was worse than the last as horrified realization dawned. Fury warred with shame in his gut and he tried again to get away, to get Hawke's dick out of his mouth, but the warrior would not let him. The thick rod of flesh in his throat, once a source of dazed euphoria, was increasingly uncomfortable. It was a horrible stretching, filling sensation where nothing should have been. It was an intimate violation Justice could do nothing about but endure and vow eventual devastating retaliation for.

He could not speak with Hawke's length sliding in and out of his throat, but the rage on his face was unmistakable.

"What?" Hawke snarked. "Changed your mind? Too late now, spirit. You're in too deep." He laughed nastily, grinding his hips against Justice's face, and the mage gagged. "Technically _I'm_ in pretty deep, too, but in a different way."

Justice growled furiously and attempted to bite down on the head of Hawke's dick the next time it was passing between his teeth. He had barely begun the motion when his entire body was shocked with agonizing electric fire. Hawke pulled his dick out of Justice's mouth just ahead of a tormented scream. Justice fell forward between the warrior's legs into the dust, convulsing and sobbing in anguish.

Hawke stepped back and stared down at him disdainfully for a while, casually stroking his still-hard length with one fist. After a while he waved a hand negligently, and Justice's screams were cut off. He lay on his side in the chalky dirt of the Fade, trembling and gasping for breath, his face ashen and streaked with tears.

"Finished?" Hawke asked boredly as Justice's pants subsided. The spirit turned a look of such vile hatred on him that Hawke bared his teeth in a grin.

"Oh, I know. You must just _hate_ me right now," Hawke taunted.

Justice's face was twisted with disgust. He looked away. "You've used and humiliated me, and spent yourself into my body," he said. "Now leave me be."

He needed to return to the real world, Justice thought. He hadn't expected his trap at the Kirkwall nexus to send Hawke's mind into the Fade. Or had the wyrd done that? He certainly hadn't expected the creature to yank _him_ into the field just as the spell ignited. If he could return to Anders's body, and somehow leave Hawke behind... and perhaps return with reinforcements...

Justice's mind whirled. Wynne would likely have arrived by now, in Kirkwall. Any discrepancy in temporal step between the Fade and the real world would have stabilized when he and Hawke had entered the local analogous space. If there was some way by which a group of fighters could be brought into the Fade, perhaps through use of the city network, to battle the wyrd...

His train of thought was derailed when Hawke's foot shoved against his arm, rolling him onto his back. The warrior's bare foot came down on Justice's chest with painfully intense pressure.

"You're kidding, right?" Hawke said with a sinister smirk. He continued to stroke himself slowly, his balls hanging heavily over the fold of his shorts.

Justice stared at him in hostile bewilderment.

"You think because I shot a load, your problems are over? I'm just getting started, sparky."

Justice felt an unwelcome clench of fear. He tried immediately to fight it down, because he knew Hawke would know, and it would just incense him further. He couldn't, and the warrior's smirk became a feral grin.

_I must endure,_ Justice thought determinedly even as panic clawed holes in his rationality. _I must not break. He has demonstrated already how he intends to manipulate me with pleasure, and I was powerless to stop him. This time, I must not give in._

Justice's eyes followed Hawke carefully as he removed his foot from the mage's chest and stepped back. He raised his hands and a subtle shockwave seemed to expand outwards through the film of oily smoke that covered the wasteland. Justice felt the bands of magic around his wrists, ankles, and neck contracting, lifting him upwards and turning him until he stood upright. Hawke gestured minutely with his claws, and Justice landed in the dust with his legs spread in a wide stance and his arms straight out at his sides. To his burning shame, his cock was still rock hard, tenting his shorts rather obviously.

For the umpteenth time, Justice cursed the weaknesses of flesh and mortal body chemistry. He tried again to reach for his magic, but the wyrd's power remained far greater than his, and he still felt only void where his mana usually dwelt.

Hawke walked toward him with a predatory gleam in his eyes. Justice eyed him apprehensively, unsure what to expect. He tensed as Hawke trailed the backs of a handful of claws down his chest, pausing to briefly tease a nipple ring. He tried to shy away when Hawke's hand fell lower, not wanting those wicked claws anywhere near his groin. Hawke sniffed around Justice's ear and cupped his bulge with a soft chuckle. His other hand traced around the mage's flank to his back. Justice twitched when he felt claws aggravating the long slash down his spine, partly from the discomfort and partly from the intensity of remembered sensations – both rapturous pleasure and excruciating pain.

Hawke sidled around behind him, his hand lingering on Justice's bulge. Justice took a series of deep breaths, noting with relief that Hawke appeared to be taking care not to damage him with his claws. The warrior ran his tongue across Justice's back from his left shoulder to his right, provoking a shiver with a mild tingle of magical stimulation. Hair stood erect all over Justice's body as the subtle, pleasing sensation rippled from his shoulders down his arms and through his trunk to his legs.

Hawke reached around Justice's body with both hands and crept his claws in a series of pinpricks up the mage's abdomen with a disturbing spidery motion. Warm lips found his neck and sucked gently. Justice instinctively tried to arch away from the prickle of claws, but the magical bonds kept him solidly in place and Hawke's muscular warmth right behind him prevented him from avoiding his touch. Hawke's lips and tongue were all over his neck and shoulder, igniting tiny bursts of tingling pleasure, and against his will Justice let out a soft moan. He could almost feel Hawke smirking.

The warrior's large hands came to rest over his pectoral muscles, and his claws scored a line of punctures amidst the tuft of hair that grew over his sternum. Caught between pleasure and pain, Justice could do nothing but whimper and squirm uncomfortably.

Hawke's teeth grazed along his neck, and the tingling warmth they left in their wake was stronger than before. At the same time his hands smoothed down the rippled muscle of Justice's abdomen, scoring several light scratches along the way. Justice inhaled sharply as Hawke's claws slipped into his shorts, but the warrior's fingers curled easily around his rigid shaft without the slightest nick. It seemed that along with whatever foul magic of the wyrd's had distorted Hawke's fingernails into deadly claws also granted him inhuman dexterity – so far, he had only ever wounded Justice when he desired to.

Hawke knelt in a slow, gradual motion, trailing tingling kisses down Justice's back as he began to stroke the mage in a lazy beat. His other hand was spread over Justice's left flank, the points of his claws resting against vulnerable flesh and encouraging the spirit to keep still.

Justice clenched his teeth at the sensation of Hawke's languid stroke, which was only distantly familiar to him – much more so to Anders – and undeniably pleasing. Even the rough feel of the fabric of his shorts against the engorged head of his dick was oddly captivating. Hawke's claws felt warm and silky on his skin, almost oily in their smoothness. His lips were enticingly soft against the small of his back, soothing the sting of the long cut. Justice tried to muster his willpower to steel himself against giving in, but it was much harder to resist this intimate, affectionate pleasure than he'd expected.

Hawke's hand on his side moved down over the leg of his shorts and back up, under the fabric, claws stroking the skin of his thigh. Hawke's thumb claw trailed down over Justice's buttock, and his lips pressed into the small of his back. The tingling pleasure continued to grow stronger, concentrating in a kind of sparkling starburst deep inside him, just above his groin. Justice gritted his teeth and tried to think of the furious vengeance he would exact on the wyrd if he survived this encounter, rather than the maddeningly enticing sensations on his skin and along his shaft. He could feel pearly fluid at the tip of his cock, and he shivered with a groan as Hawke's thumb passed over it, spreading the moisture around the head.

Hawke's teeth grazed the skin of his waist just above his shorts. The warrior caught his canines around the waistband and tugged downwards, smoothly revealing the round globe of Justice's butt. Hawke's hand arched against his thigh, helping the fabric slide down over smooth skin.

The touch of Hawke's tongue on his butt was electric, and it didn't help that the warrior's hand was tightening his grip and speeding up his stroking rhythm. Justice inhaled sharply when Hawke's tongue danced down into his cleft, teasing along the warmth between his buttocks, skirting just shy of the sensitive pucker. Justice grunted and squirmed against his bonds, unsure if he wanted to get away from Hawke or push himself back against that questing, probing tongue and livid with himself for that uncertainty.

He was drawing ever closer to orgasm, pushed along by the bursts of tingling heat Hawke's lips and tongue sent rippling through him. The sensations reached his cock in spirals of glowing pleasure, and Justice failed utterly at stifling his groans of enjoyment. Hawke's grip on him was exquisitely tight, sliding up and down in a powerful beat. Unconsciously, Justice began to roll his hips with Hawke's rhythm, riding the warrior's fist with his eyes mostly closed and his lips parted in bliss.

Closer, ever closer to shuddering climax he came, and the better it felt, the further Justice's capacity for reason eroded. It was becoming difficult to care that Hawke was manipulating him, sinking claws of control ever deeper into his mind, breaking his will to resist. His fury seemed increasingly petulant, childish – these words came from Anders, because Justice had no concept of pettiness or immaturity when it came to his namesake virtue. But Anders was aglow with contentment, immersed in what he believed was Hawke's love and affection and the physical pleasure through which that sentiment incarnated, and Justice's fire could be nothing but washed away in the flood.

He was teetering on the edge, feeling his long-awaited eruption imminent. Justice tensed with a groan of anticipation, eagerly looking forward to experiencing this bodily contortion of muscle and hormones that he had once so despised as a crippling weakness of mortal flesh. It was coming... so close...

Hawke's hands lifted from his cock and slipped out of his shorts. The electric heat of his lips vanished from Justice's skin. He was alone.

"What..." Justice was confused, and he was angry, but most of all he was frightened. Surely Hawke wouldn't build all that up and just... _leave_ him here like this? So close to fulfillment, unable to touch himself and bring it forth?

Justice cried out and yanked on his hands, trying to reach down to satisfy his burning, aching need. The bonds were just as solidly immoveable as they had always been. He could not do it.

"Hawke!" Justice bellowed. "Finish it!"

He felt the warrior's tongue sliding along the shell of his right ear and the soft breath of a snicker, but there was no other sound.

Justice roared his frustration and writhed as hard as he could, savagely pushing again and again with mana that simply was not there. His nerves burned with pain, his fingers spasmed with the effort of squeezing and wringing an empty vessel, harder and harder. The void within him was just like the mind-numbing pleasure he could feel, just out of reach, hanging on the end of his dick with the gleaming drop of pre-ejaculate. Painfully empty and unbearably frustrating.

Eventually Justice calmed down as the effects of Hawke's stimulation subsided. His cock remained as hard as ever, but the tantalizing closeness receded once again into mocking distance. Hawke nibbled on his earlobe, pressed against his back, gripping him to either side of his ribcage and swaying their bodies with a deceptive gentleness. The long, hard shaft of his cock dug into Justice's thigh. His claws teased the mage's nipple rings, itself a distractingly pleasing sensation. The warrior was in complete control, and both of them knew it.

_So much for enduring,_ Justice thought bitterly. _I have failed, and he has won again. Is there any hope for me?_

Another thought bloomed in his mind, unmistakably one of Anders's, not his own. _Of course there is. And there is hope for him, as well._

Justice couldn't bring himself to believe that, but in a way he _did_ believe it, because Anders believed and he and Anders were one. It was a strange feeling, both to believe in something and not believe in it at the same time.

Hawke's tongue flicked into his ear. "Nice and calm?" he whispered. "Ready for another go?"

"Get your hands off me, filth," Justice hissed back.

Hawke laughed at him and sidled around to his front. He gripped Justice's head with one hand and kissed him hungrily while the other ran pointedly down his chest and over his abdomen. Justice struggled, keeping his lips firmly shut, even though he knew it was useless. Needle-sharp pain stabbed his head where Hawke's claws contracted around his skull, forcing his teeth apart to let in Hawke's greedy tongue. Justice bit down hard again, but just like the last time he'd done that, Hawke didn't even wince. All his efforts gained him was the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth.

Justice felt sharp claws dancing up his sides and twitched involuntarily as they reached his sensitive, ticklish armpits. Against his will, he let out a stream of high-pitched laughter into Hawke's kiss. The warrior drew back and sneered at him as Justice fought to keep his composure, but the sensations of Hawke's fingers questing around his armpits, tracing so smoothly through the hair that grew there, were made all the worse by the fact that he could not move his arms at all to protect himself.

Hawke bent down and replaced his claws in Justice's left armpit with his tongue, still bleeding from the mage's teeth. Justice gasped and grunted, still trying vainly to squirm away. Hawke's breath on the moisture of his saliva and blood left in his armpit was startlingly cool.

"Stop," Justice groaned. "Please."

He knew better than to compound his weakness by admitting it, but the humiliation of being so much at Hawke's mercy was almost worse than the tickling itself.

Fortunately for him, Hawke relented, uncharacteristically, and smoothed his hands down Justice's flanks to his waist. His mouth drifted over to Justice's nipple and he lapped at it roughly. His fingers snaked into Justice's shorts and pushed them down to the middle of his thighs. The slide of fabric over his cock was intense, especially combined with Hawke's greedy tongue on his nipple, and Justice had to fight back a breathy moan.

He was doomed to fail at that endeavour. In another heartbeat, Hawke was on his knees between Justice's spread legs, gripping his waist and kissing his navel. Inside another moment Hawke had taken Justice's entire length into his mouth in one smooth motion. The sudden sucking warmth and moisture provoked a husky, drawn-out growl from the spirit, and he couldn't even try to hold it in. Nor could he hold in the rumbles of pleasure that welled up involuntarily from his throat as Hawke's tongue worked around his shaft, leaving trails of warm, tingling magic that seeped into him and unraveled with delicious slowness.

Justice forced himself to take deep, controlled breaths and tried to partition his mind away from the pleasure of Hawke's mouth on his cock, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of his rigid shaft sliding in and out of those soft lips. Hawke's emerald gaze was locked seductively on his. He paused in his rhythm to wrap his tongue around the head of Justice's cock, tilting his head to suck on it gently before running his tongue slowly down the shaft. One hand came forward to take up the beat with a tight, patient stroke while Hawke engulfed Justice's sac in his mouth. The spirit clenched his teeth and groaned at the tug of moist suction on his balls, and the accompanying tingle of magic that traveled up his shaft in streamers of sensation. Hawke's beard brushed against his skin in several places, and while the bristle of facial hair was superficially strange and even uncomfortable, the raw sensitivity of Justice's entire body made the slight pain perversely enjoyable.

He was approaching climax again, and Justice sensed from Hawke's smirk as he licked up his shaft and engulfed it again that the warrior would deny him that final burst of ecstasy as he had previously. Justice tried again to pull his mind away from the pleasure, knowing it would not fulfill itself as he so desperately wanted it to, but he could not help his shuddering breaths and grunts as Hawke's mouth sped up, his hands caressed the mage's sac and his thigh...

He was there, almost – one more stroke and he would erupt-

And Hawke was gone, slipping between his legs like a snake and darting upwards to kiss the back of his neck as Justice snarled and writhed in frustration.

Hawke didn't even let him recover himself this time. The wound along his spine had stopped bleeding, but Hawke reopened it with a heedless swipe of his claws and ran his tongue down the stinging gash. His claws traveled down Justice's flanks, not bothering with care this time, scoring a maze of wandering, curling cuts in the mage's skin. Hawke's tongue reached his cleft at the same time his hands reached his hips, and Justice groaned, somewhat from the pleasure but mostly from rage, as Hawke licked boldly into that tight warmth.

Hawke gripped his buttocks, igniting an abrupt and powerful current of blissful magical stimulation, and Justice cried out. Hawke spread the globes of flesh with his thumbs and darted in with his tongue, provoking yet more twisting and keening from the bound spirit. Hawke's beard scratch Justice in sensitive places, but he hardly noticed. The warrior's skilled tongue was probing him deeply, caressing the ring of muscle at his entrance, encouraging it to open with his thumbs and his lips.

Somewhere in his mind, apart from Anders, Justice knew that he was nearly lost, and that the absolute last thing he wanted was for this to go any further. Anders was long gone already, enslaved to Hawke's will by the hooks of pleasure embedded in his flesh and his mind. Justice was determined to endure, to outlast his host for both their sakes, to remain himself for as long as it took for help to arrive in whatever form it might. However unlikely that was to happen, Justice had no other choice. There was much more that depended on his keeping hold of his sanity than just himself, Anders, and Michael Hawke.

But the magic... that _tongue_... Hawke's mere touched promised more, _much_ more, and Justice wanted badly to give in. He only hoped he would be strong enough not to.

Hawke's mouth lifted from his anus briefly, and confusion crept up on Justice when he heard a series of snapping sounds. He twisted around as he heard Hawke spit, trying to see what the warrior was doing. Justice's eyes widened when he saw mottled brown keratinous spikes lying in the dust. Hawke had bitten off three of his own claws. What in the Void for?

Then Justice felt a finger massaging his entrance, and he shuddered with both knowledge and discomfort. He could only feel glad that Hawke had at least cared enough to remove his claws first, but mostly what he felt was fear.

Hawke spat copiously onto his finger and inserted it smoothly into Justice, keeping the mage's buttocks spread with his other hand. He pushed his finger in slowly but inexorably until it was buried to the third knuckle. Ignoring Justice's twitches and grunts of pain, Hawke curled his finger and began to draw it back out. Once free, he coated the digit with more saliva and slid it back in. He began to pump in and out, not quite gently, but at least not roughly, either.

After the second time Hawke withdrew his finger and lubricated it again, Justice was growing used to the sensation. He knew Anders had been in this position many times in the past, but Justice had never paid attention – partly out of disgust and annoyance at the distraction from their cause, and partly out of fear of the unknown. It was the first time Justice had ever experienced such sensations, and while they felt good after a while in a twisted kind of way, it was at least easier not to lose himself in mindless carnal bliss.

Hawke's next intrusion into his private depths was accomplished not with one finger, but two. Justice wondered briefly at his purpose, and then he remembered, with an unpleasant shock of fear, the words Hawke had whispered to him during their battle in the sewers beneath Kirkwall.

"_Have you ever experienced an orgasm, Justice? ...Do you know what it feels like to have a man's cock up your ass?_"

Well, at least he knew what was coming. That didn't make it any less terrifying.

Justice was suddenly furious with himself. What was wrong with him? He was a spirit of Justice, not some puling traumatized wretch. He vowed he would not become one, no matter what Hawke did to him, and this was a vow he intended to keep. The wyrd had taken many things from him through Hawke, its puppet, and no doubt would take yet more, but Justice would die before he parted with his dignity. Every remaining erg of power he still held over himself went into cementing this oath in the core of his being.

Even as Hawke's fingers were stretching him open, preparing him for a much larger, more painful stretch, Justice feverishly worked to partition his mind one final time, secreting away as much of himself and Anders as he could spare from dealing with the situation at hand. He would bring himself and his host safely through this ordeal if it was the last thing he ever did.

Hawke's fingers withdrew, and Justice tensed, wondering if what he feared would happen was about to. Instead, Hawke's fingers were replaced by his thumb, and Justice was momentarily confused. Then the digit lodged inside him curled downwards and stroked something inside that made Justice arch his back with a strangled gasp of pleasure.

Hawke snickered at Justice's reaction and stroked the spot again, this time adding a tingle of magic. Justice let out a long, husky groan, involuntarily bucking backwards against Hawke's thumb, trying to get him to touch that spot again. Hawke did so, but only with excruciating slowness. Justice took what he could get, incoherent with lust, his cock madly leaking fluid that drooled from its tip down his shaft and into the dust of the Fade.

Hawke's free hand snaked between Justice's legs and curled around his cock. He gave it a few strokes as his other thumb pressed that delicious spot inside him, infusing both points of contact with his intoxicating magic. Ecstasy rippled upwards through Justice's body from the pit of his groin. His vision blurred, his mouth hung open, his head rolled back. He could do nothing except ride the waves and vocalize meaningless grunts and moans.

Justice was already dangerously close to climax, and so it was less than a minute before he approached his eruption for the third time, spurred on by Hawke's hand on his shaft and thumb inside him. Both of Hawke's hands withdrew from him before he could tip over the edge into an abyss of carnal ecstasy, and Justice's groan was both infuriated and despairing. Hawke stood behind him, chuckling softly as his hands caressed Justice's flanks.

"Just a little longer, my sweet pet," Hawke murmured in his ear. "Trust me, the best is yet to come. When you finally reach that elusive moment I've been denying you, it will be like nothing you have ever before known in your existence. You will finally be mine, fully and completely. Nothing else will matter to you after that shattering conclusion, except pleasing me and doing my will. And then..."

His breath was hot on Justice's neck, his teeth eager against the mage's ear.

"Then the _real_ fun will begin," Hawke whispered, and Justice was paralyzed with terror.

He hardly dared breathe as Hawke knelt down one last time to spit on and lather his tongue against the tight ring of muscle at his entrance. Justice shuddered at Hawke's probing, knowing what was coming next and unable to help feeling eager anticipation. In the back of his mind, he clung to the hope that his self, carefully partitioned and sealed away from Hawke's influence, would survive the experience intact.

Hawke stood and gestured with a pushing motion, inducing the ring of magic around Justice's neck to pull him adamantly forward until he was bent almost horizontally. It might have been drastically uncomfortable with only the collar and the bonds at his wrists preventing him from face-planting into the wasteland, but Hawke's magic provided a solid, invisible buffer to hold his weight. It felt like he was lying on his stomach on a flat, warm surface with a very slight give to it, like a thin blanket atop a stone or wooden table.

Hawke's hands closed in a firm grip on his hips. Justice was thinking how at least the warrior seemed to want him to be comfortable while he raped and abused him when a flutter in the encompassing red curtain ahead of him caught his eye.

The scarlet wall hadn't so much as twitched since it had enclosed their island, cutting off the view of the surrounding Fadescape. As far as Justice could tell, its edges had merged seamlessly to create a more-or-less cylindrical shape, but as he eyed the billowing ribbon closely, he realized that that was not the case. Its seam was directly in front of him, and the ends of the ribbon were quite clearly not attached to one another. A thread of the Fade was just visible between the undulating edges of the strange curtain, and a dim shape, silhouetted in the gloomy, omnipresent light, moved just beyond.

As Justice watched, spindly grey fingers tipped by wicked black claws slid between the edges of the ribbon, and a large empty eye peered in at him curiously. Its owner might have been a spirit or a dreamer, but it was clearly not human. For one thing, the shape of its body beyond the curtain, while indistinct, was too tall and thin; for another, its head was enormous and bizarrely misshapen. Though Justice was sure he had never seen that eye before, both he and Anders felt a curious spark of familiarity.

Justice made to twist his head around to look at Hawke, who was sliding his erect shaft up and down between his buttocks. He looked back to where the eye had been. It was gone.

Justice was intensely curious about what sort of creature might have been spying on them, but all thoughts of the eye and its mysterious owner fled his mind when he felt the engorged head of Hawke's dick pressing against his hole. Justice tensed instinctively, fighting down the urge to panic.

Smooth, oily claws slid soothingly down his back, igniting a trail of tingling pleasure. He felt Hawke kiss his shoulder blades affectionately, one after the other, each moment of contact releasing a burst of warmth.

"Relax," Hawke said softly. "It will hurt at first, but you'll enjoy this. Just relax. Unwind. Let all the tension go."

Justice tried to do as he was told, but it was difficult to let go without also letting go of his fear. Hawke's gentle touch, the warmth of his lips, his murmured reassurances, and the tingle of his magic all helped a great deal. Reluctantly, Justice allowed his weight to rest against the invisible plane holding him up and relaxed the muscles throughout his body.

"Good," Hawke said. "You're doing good, pet. Now I'm going to push in. Try to stay calm. Keep yourself nice and loose for me."

Justice couldn't help clenching his teeth as the throbbing round knob of Hawke's cock slowly forced its way into him. The pain was blunt and intense, an unnatural stretching sensation unlike anything he'd ever felt before. The deeper Hawke penetrated, the worse it became, and in moments Justice was gasping and moaning. His eyes were squeezed shut in agony, his breath coming in harsh pants. His hands clenched against nothing, still trapped and immobilized by the magical bonds around his wrists.

It went on and on. Hawke's thick shaft pushed him ever wider apart, ever deeper. Every time Justice thought there could not possibly be any more, Hawke forced another inch of rigid cock into him. The warrior's hands were locked around his shoulders, the asymmetrical imprint of his remaining claws leaving crescents of puncture wounds.

"Ohhh, fuck... you're so _tight_," Hawke groaned. "Wow... _wow._ Maker damn you, Justice, for holding out on me all this time..." He panted with excitement. "I bet Anders is just _loving_ this, huh?"

Justice was in too much pain to answer him, but Hawke was right.

"Can't wait to pound that tight little hole as hard as I can," Hawke growled.

"_Not_... _helping_," Justice ground out angrily. Hawke snickered.

"Don't you worry, pet. You'll be fine. I'll wait until you're ready, I promise. The pain will go away soon enough, and then you'll be begging me to ram this cock into you harder and faster than even I could."

Justice doubted that rather seriously, but he said nothing.

Finally he felt the tickle of Hawke's pubic hair brushing against his butt. Hawke was all the way in, and he stopped there, giving the spirit time to adjust. Justice felt uncomfortably full, stretched beyond what was surely natural, and yet the pain wasn't nearly as bad now that Hawke had stopped penetrating any deeper. He tried to relax himself further, to accommodate the massive fleshy rod lodged inside him. Instinctively, he clenched himself around it a few times. Hawke inhaled sharply in surprise, and Justice allowed a rare smirk of his own to cross his face momentarily.

Hawke began to draw himself out, and it was the same excruciating friction except in reverse. Justice managed not to keen pathetically this time, but he still had to clench his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut to endure the pain.

After the interminable withdrawal, Hawke pulled himself out with a slick _pop_ and knelt down to hungrily tongue Justice's stretched hole a bit more. He spit copiously and shoved the saliva inward with his tongue, able to penetrate deeper now that Justice had been so thoroughly opened. Justice trembled at the slick touch, his battered nerves highly sensitive after the intimate intrusion.

Hawke lapped at him for a few seconds, ensuring that Justice was well-lubricated, and stood up to push himself back in. This time, having been fully penetrated once already and with the addition of another mouthful of spit, the ride was smooth and hardly painful at all. In fact, it sent a tingle of excitement along Justice's spine that had nothing whatsoever to do with magic. He gasped a little, particularly when Hawke reached his maximum depth in a much shorter time and angled himself just right to slide past that delicious spot on the way.

"Like that?" Hawke murmured amusedly, and Justice nodded, too consumed by these new sensations to answer.

Hawke drew himself out slickly and rode back in, harder than before, and Justice made a high-pitched grunt. His eyes were wide open, chest heaving, but no longer with pain or anxiety.

"Ohh..." he whispered the next time Hawke surged into him, and the warrior stroked his cheek with a claw.

"Told you you'd like it," Hawke said smugly.

"Shut up and fuck me," Justice growled back at him, and Hawke laughed long and loud.

He started to pump himself in and out in a firm, steady rhythm, not too fast or too hard just yet. Justice's grunting became a near-continuous groan of eager enjoyment. The rub of rigid flesh within him, far from being harsh and painful, now felt smooth and utterly intoxicating. The stretch was like stretching the muscles of his arms and back after a hard day's travel, but a hundredfold better. Justice lived for those moments of complete fullness when Hawke was at the apex of his thrusts, when he was stuffed so full of cock he could feel it in the pit of his stomach.

"Fuck," he moaned, head hanging weakly against the invisible platform. "Oh, fuck."

"I know," Hawke murmured back. "I know. It's good, eh? Nice and big. You like that big fat cock stretching you wide open, pushing so deep into you?"

"Yes," Justice gasped. "Yes. I love it."

"Yeah, I know you do." Hawke maintained his easy pace but started to pump harder. Each thrust provoked a keening grunt from the bent-over spirit and an erotic smack as the skin of his hips slapped repeatedly against Justice's butt. Hawke leaned down with his hands spread to grip Justice's biceps and licked teasingly up his back, stimulating a mild magical current. Justice arched back against him with a breathless groan.

"Faster," he whimpered. "Faster."

"What did I tell you?" Hawke snickered as he obliged the lustful spirit. Justice writhed against him, pushing back to meet his pumping cock as Hawke increased his pace.

"Yeah... nice eager hole," Hawke said huskily between greedily kissing all over Justice's back. "Knows what it wants. You've seriously been missing out, pet. Squeeze it for me."

He slowed a little as he pushed in on his next thrust, and Justice did his best to clench his weakened muscles around Hawke's cock. The warrior growled his approval and pulled out only to pound back in hard. Justice cried out and bucked wildly, grinding his hips against Hawke to try and get him in deeper.

"Fuck yes!" Justice gasped. "Fuck me, fuck me! Hard! Come on!"

"You asked for it," Hawke said snarkily, and started to ram into him brutally. Justice let out a strangled, incoherent yell. His entire body shook with the force of Hawke's thrusts. A white foam of saliva and pre-ejaculate glistened on Hawke's shaft as he pounded it in and out of the mage's tight, slick hole as hard as he could.

"Oh, _yeah_," Justice moaned. "Yeah..."

He was afloat in a haze of thoughtless bliss. Hawke's grip on his shoulders was almost painful, but Justice didn't care. The warrior was stimulating a powerful magical current between them, and the twin streamers of sensation met in his chest with a fiery bloom of ecstasy that shuddered and twisted every time Hawke's cock pounded him from behind. He had never imagined anything could feel so good. What felt like genuine regret that he had resisted for so long lurked in his mind beneath the smothering blanket of carnal joy.

Justice ached to reach down to touch his pulsing cock, leaking fluid precipitously, and for the first time he was almost glad for the bonds at his wrists. He knew without a doubt that if he so much as touched himself, his orgasm would explode from him. He wanted this to last.

He had no idea how long they went on like that, pumping and groaning and fucking. It seemed to last a while, but Justice's mind was in such disarray that he had no real conception of the passage of time.

After a while Justice realized he could feel Hawke's teeth on his neck. How long they had been there, he couldn't say, but he felt sure that Hawke's clawed hand reaching across his face hadn't been there a few moments ago. Justice turned his head to meet Hawke's lips, eagerly parting his teeth to let in the warrior's powerful roving tongue. Streamers of bright internal power flowed in a heady current between their lips and where Hawke's cock pumped his hole, hard and fast.

"Cut me," Justice whispered as their lips briefly parted. "Hurt me."

He was hardly in direct control of what his mouth was saying; his mind was so scrambled by the pleasure he was experiencing that some of Anders was emerging from his state of insensate obedience. Justice didn't even care.

Hawke's smirk was wicked, his eyes alive with malice. His pupils dilated with unnatural suddenness, expanding in the space of a heartbeat to nearly eclipse the green of his irises. Justice didn't care about that either. He only cared that Hawke obliged him by carving a severe gouge into his cheek with his claws. The additional sensation of wild pain, coupled with the wet ecstatic grind of their bodies against one another, was a perfect drug.

"More," Justice groaned, and Hawke followed his request with sinister hunger. He sank his teeth eagerly into Justice's right shoulder even as his left hand was slashing a series of wounds down his flank. Hawke's hand clenched against his side, digging his claws in savagely, and Justice writhed and keened his pleasure.

"Fucking perfect," Hawke growled, panting against the brutalized skin of Justice's shoulder. "I can taste your power in your blood. Fucking Maker, that's _perfect_." His muscular weight shuddered against Justice's body, and he ground his cock around inside the mage's tight warmth as he gnawed bestially on the shredded flesh. Justice could feel his own blood dripping down his body in a number of places, but the only coherent thought in his head was _If my existence ends right now, it will all have been worth it to experience this_.

Hawke's left hand crawled around Justice's savaged flank to slash his chest. The pumping rhythm of his cock aggravated the wounds at the apex of each thrust as the force rocked Justice's body against Hawke's claws. For Justice, that only made it better. Hawke clawed his way up Justice's chest to his neck as his teeth clamped over the mage's ear.

When he felt the warrior's teeth ripping his earlobe open and claws wandering over his throat as if wondering the best place to slice into, Justice felt more pain than pleasure for the first time since Hawke had started cutting him. The thought was a mere flicker in the chaotic storm of his mind – he was long past forming coherent words besides – but he knew Hawke sensed his flicker of fear when the warrior growled and pressed against him, pounding harder than ever.

"I love you," Hawke snarled against his ear, and far from being reassured, Justice's fear only intensified into full-blown terror. He tensed instinctively, squeezing his loosened anal muscles around Hawke's raging thrusts with all the dregs of energy he could still muster to them. Perhaps fortunately for Justice, his convulsion coupled with his fear seemed to finally push Hawke over the edge.

"I'm going to come," Hawke groaned a bare instant before he erupted inside Justice with a victorious, animalistic howl. He pulsed frenetically into the mage, unloading a copious flood of hot white spunk deep within. Hawke muffled his bellow against Justice's neck, sucking hard against the flow of blood from one of the places where his teeth had landed earlier.

The explosion of masculine heat sent Justice into a frenzy of his own. Mind-bending power surged through him at Hawke's release, and without even having touched himself his cock began to pulse and let fly powerful jets of semen. Justice could do nothing but yell incoherently and ride the stupefying waves of ecstasy, over and over again. Together, Justice and Hawke shuddered and writhed their combined pleasure, connected by their hips and by Hawke's lips locked on Justice's neck. Hawke's spunk ran in slippery trails down Justice's leg, squeezed out of him by the pressure and volume of the warrior's climax.

After nearly a minute of intense orgasm, the frantic pulses of power washing between them like tides began at last to ebb. Justice's heartbeat slowed very gradually, but he continued to heave and gasp for breath for some time, splayed against the invisible power supporting his upper body. His mind was in pieces. He was speechless and deaf to the world, hearing only Hawke's ragged, grunting breath in his ear and his own pounding heart.

Hawke's shaft remained buried deep inside him, a delicious fullness that was comfortably still where before he had needed with primal urgency for it to _move_. Justice had no desire to extricate himself from Hawke's embrace just yet, and so they rested together, still connected. Slowly, Justice floated down through the hazy glow of satisfaction, collecting the shattered fragments of his reason.

Eventually Hawke's hands curled around his chest and supported his weight as the magic dissolved with a barely perceptible flash. The bonds at his wrists and ankles disappeared, though Justice could feel the magical collar, still around his neck. Hawke straightened the mage's pliant, nerveless body and stepped back carefully, drawing his semen-slick cock out of Justice with a wet noise that provoked soft groans from both of them. Justice trembled with exhaustion, but Hawke's hands on his slashed and bloody flanks kept him steady as he tugged his sweat-damp shorts up around his hips.

Hawke followed his example, tucking his soaked, softening shaft into his shorts and then sweeping Justice into his arms with a smirk. Carefully, he laid the mage down in the dust and collapsed next to him with a weary, gratified exhalation. Hawke reached over to tug on Justice's shoulder and, with his help, the spirit rolled onto him to lie face-to-face.

Hawke stroked Justice's face affectionately with an oily claw, and they kissed, softly. The glow of Justice's eyes was pale and weak; Hawke's pupils had returned to normal size. Around them, the Fade was calm and silent, the red curtain still and undisturbed.

"I meant what I said," Hawke murmured after an indeterminate period of this quiet intimacy.

"What?" Justice asked distantly, wondering if he would return to the physical world if he fell asleep in the Fade. He had never known what it was to be tired and desire sleep until he'd possessed a living host, and he had no idea what would happen if their dream-self lost consciousness in this realm.

"I said I loved you," Hawke reminded him quietly. "I meant it. You're mine, Justice, just like Anders is. You and he are one, but you and I are also one."

Justice said nothing. The pain of the slash wounds and bite marks all over his body stung pointedly. He tried not to sneer.

Hawke ran his fingers through the mage's hair and kissed him on the cheek.

"You're mine," he whispered again. "Everything you are is within me. And when we return to the world, we will be unstoppable together. Everything _it is_ will be within us."

"No," Justice said hoarsely.

Hawke's eyes hardened at once. "What?"

"You are a fool, creature," Justice hissed with snide laughter in his voice. "You think you have broken me? You are wrong. I am _not_ yours."

He pushed himself to his feet with difficultly and stepped away. Hawke stared up at him without moving, but the look in his eyes was dangerous and terrifying. The red ribbon around the island fluttered agitatedly. When Hawke spoke, his voice resonated throughout the surrounding environs, shaking the Fade itself.

"Think very carefully, my fiery little spirit," Hawke said softly. "What I offer you is something you could never gain by yourself, no matter what pitiful mortal mage you possessed."

"What you _offer _me," Justice spat, "is _slavery_. What you _offer _me is to make me a weapon for your own evil, as you have made out of Michael Hawke. I will not be used, and nor will I rest until I see him freed from your foul control."

Hawke's lip curled back in a sneer. The black smoke that filmed the wasteland roiled around him, gathering its force.

"You cannot defeat me here, alone," Hawke said with calm mockery. "I give you one more chance. As long as I exist, so too will you. If you defy me, I promise you that your mind will not survive the experience intact. I will bring worlds of suffering into your head. I will make you _wish_ you could die. You will regret that you had ever existed at all."

In answer, Justice gathered together the minute dregs of mana he had managed to absorb from the Fade since the bonds on his wrists and ankles had dissolved. He raised his hand toward Hawke and performed a simple gesture.

A glittering needle of azure fire lanced forth and pierced Hawke in the left shoulder. The warrior recoiled with a hiss of pain, his right hand flying up to cover the wound with shock and outrage in his eyes. He stood up slowly, his gaze never leaving Justice, and the mage braced himself.

Hawke's pupils dilated steadily, emptying his eyes of any remaining traces of humanity. He walked forward, and Justice couldn't help backing away.

"Very well," Hawke said with deadly softness. He lowered his hand from the wound in his shoulder, and black smoke boiled from it. "I promised you I would break you, Justice, and I mean to keep that promise. I tried pleasure first, because I genuinely cared for Anders."

His face twisted in amused contempt.

"That did not work, so let us try pain instead," Hawke said. He twitched a finger, and Justice was lost in agony, his screams unheard.

**Ω**


	23. Lucidity

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Lucidity"**

Hightown Square was empty and still, flooded with the watery light of the sun still climbing away from the horizon. Few sounds disturbed the deceptive quiet of this early morning peace: the cries of far-off birds, gulls and carrion feeders both; the rustle of wind in the greenery that festooned Hawke's mansion; a distant voice calling an unknown name. The grey race of clouds that had rendered the previous day chilly and damp had moved on during the night, but the choking humidity remained. Thankfully, the bodies had been moved before the stench of decay could become pervasive.

A warm, muggy breeze drifted in through one of the broken windows of the Hawke estate, pushing a few strands of Isabela's hair loose from her blue kerchief as she peered out from the antechamber mezzanine.

"Looks pretty quiet out there," the pirate reported.

Knight-Captain Cullen folded his arms, looking up at her impassively from the first floor. "That means nothing."

Isabela sauntered over to the balustrade and leaned on it, eyeing the templar below her suggestively. "What kind of spirit makes a habit of lurking out of sight, waiting to ambush hapless passersby?"

"Demons of hunger and sloth," Cullen said promptly. "Ask the Warden-Commander some time about the haunted campsite she found in the Brecilian Forest."

"Oh." Isabela arched one eyebrow furtively. "Does that... happen a lot? Demons and walking corpses have never struck me as being particularly subtle. Other than the smart ones, I mean."

"The smart ones are the most dangerous precisely because they are smart," Cullen said patiently.

"I guess that makes sense." Isabela frowned her distaste. After a moment she added, "Demons suck."

Cullen shivered. "The ones that suck are particularly loathsome, I agree."

Isabela made a disgusted noise. "You're joking! There are ones that actually _suck_?"

Cullen raised his eyebrows at her. "Certainly. Most demons will try to suck _something_ at some point or another. I'm surprised, Isabela. You've been in Kirkwall for how many years and you've never been sucked on by a-?"

"Ugh! _Stop_ it, please!" Isabela shuddered. "_What_ could they possibly...? You know what, I don't even want to know." She pushed off from the balustrade and eyed the broken window.

"We should get these fixed," Isabela remarked, and left the mezzanine. Isabela walked through a few rooms of the estate's second floor to the staircase that led down to the first. In the sitting room, she tiptoed past Merrill and Fenris, who were sound asleep on the couches. Eingana and Varric were likewise asleep in bedrooms upstairs.

Isabela met up with Cullen in the common room and proceeded to follow the templar as he strode through various chambers and down hallways, heading for the drawing room at the rear of the mansion. She took a certain pleasure in watching the shifting plates of his armour as he walked. The Knight-Captain's plate wasn't overly bulky, like the armour Isabela had once seen templars wearing in Denerim; nor was it sleek and flimsy-looking like that of lower-ranked templars here in Kirkwall.

Isabela didn't delude herself that the appealingly broad shoulders of Cullen's armour in any way reflected what he looked like underneath it, but she knew from dealing with Hawke all these years that a man who could carry around and fight in the weight of that much metal on a daily basis could be no slouch. She amused herself by imagining what Cullen might look like minus the cuirass, but with the pauldrons still attached to his shoulders... of course those would have to come off too, eventually. But he could keep his gauntlets on. For a little while.

Isabela was struck by a sudden urge to write some friend-fiction. _Damn_, she thought. Of all the times for inspiration to strike, it would have to be during a demonic invasion and potentially apocalyptic crisis.

Isabela drew abreast of Cullen as he made his way down the hallway, at the end of which was the drawing room where Wynne was studying the notes Anders and Eingana had made on the wyrd.

"Aren't you tired?" Isabela asked innocuously, watching the templar out of the corner of her eye. "Did you even sleep last night? It looks like you haven't removed your armour in a while."

Cullen glanced at her with a shrewd quirk to his lips. "That's true," he admitted. "I haven't slept since before I left Kirkwall for the coast, to meet Wynne. Fortunately, all templars are conditioned to allow for extended periods of activity with little to no rest."

"I see," Isabela said amusedly. "You've got stamina, then." She spoke the word _stamina_ with the faintest possible stress.

"Yes, exa-" Cullen cut himself off, frowning at her as if suddenly mistrustful of her motives. Isabela winked at him, and smiled when the familiar flush crept up his neck.

"Exactly," Cullen resumed somewhat warily. "There are other things, however, that I can less easily do without."

"Oh?" Isabela asked curiously. "_Alone_ time?"

"Lyrium."

Isabela opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it again. Right. From the way Anders described it, every single templar was a raving addict, liable to spiral into dangerous dementia if they went more than a day without their lyrium fix. Cullen didn't strike her as a particularly unstable sort, or as prone to addiction or withdrawal-induced insanity. Still, it never hurt to be cautious.

"Are you going to be...?" Isabela began, unsure how to phrase the question tactfully.

"You need not worry about me," Cullen answered coolly. "For some time yet, at least."

Isabela nodded, slightly disconcerted, and said nothing else as they reached the end of the hallway and entered the drawing room.

Wynne sat on a velvet-upholstered couch in the middle of the room, a wooden table spread with writing-covered vellum set on an ornate Orlesian rug between her and a cold fireplace. Her staff stood upright with no visible means of support beside the couch; a curved pane of light at its apex glimmered softly in the morning sun streaming through the high window.

Wynne appeared to be deep in thought, not even looking up when Cullen and Isabela entered the room. The mage was absorbed in the sigil she was examining; Isabela carefully avoided looking at it, remembering with a twinge of discomfort the strange effect the tome in the laboratory had had on her.

"I keep thinking we should have left someone down there," Isabela remarked as she sat next to Wynne on the couch. Cullen took up a position next to the fireplace, standing erect and folding his arms as if he were on duty in the Gallows. "At the nexus, like. I mean, I know they're both locked in that magical vault thing and it's not like they can get out, or anyone else can get in, but... you know, couldn't something happen? Couldn't more demons show up, or the magic fail or... something?"

"The demons' incoming numbers will have fallen with the wyrd in containment," Cullen told her. "Without the creature's power actively sundering the Veil from this side, it will begin to repair itself on its own. That doesn't mean we're out of the woods, however. The Veil has always been weak in Kirkwall, and no doubt the great many deaths and demonic emergences in the last few days will have weakened it further..."

Isabela pursed her lips and shook her head. "Why does anyone even _live_ here?"

"It must be the climate," Cullen said in a dry deadpan. "...I imagine any demons of pride or desire already in the city will be trying their hardest to summon their lesser kin for use as fodder, as well," he added musingly.

"Excellent. _More_ hordes of the forces of evil. How long before they attack the estate, I wonder?" Isabela said with eyebrows raised. "Or the Keep? Have you heard from Aveline recently?"

Cullen's brow furrowed. "Not recently, no."

_I really should have left a long time ago_, Isabela thought. She could always find a ship elsewhere, after all. Antiva, for instance. Staying in Kirkwall was becoming more dangerous than fun, and had been for a while now. What was it that kept her so long in this blighted city?

The answer to that question was as easy as the last hundred times she'd asked it of herself. The people, the bloody people Isabela had come to care for so much, more fool her. Merrill, Varric, Fenris... Anders... and Hawke, of course, always Hawke, that bastard. What chance did he even have? What chance did _any_ of them have, with the Champion of Kirkwall the plaything of that horrible creature?

"So... suppose something _does_ go wrong at the nexus," Isabela said. "It would take us three-quarters of an hour to get down there, and that's at a brisk pace. What would-"

"What?" Wynne said suddenly, looking up in alarm. She blinked wearily, apparently having only now noticed that Isabela and Cullen were in the room with her and carrying on a conversation. "Something is wrong at the nexus?"

The elderly mage glanced at her staff with confused alarm on her face.

"No, no," Isabela said reassuringly. "...Not that I know of, at least. I was just wondering, if something _did_ happen that we don't want to, how would we know?"

"Ah... no need to worry about that, my dear," Wynne said, having calmed down upon realizing that Isabela was speaking in hypotheticals. "I've set up a warning system."

"Oh?" Cullen asked interestedly. "Of what sort?"

Wynne indicated her staff. "The magic will flash should one or more of various situations occur, indicating the nature of the threat by its colour. Any mages in the estate will be alerted."

"That's helpful," Isabela said, relieved. "Nice thinking, Wynne."

"Thank you, my dear. You might have noticed when we left the nexus chamber that I sealed the entrance with a magic-impermeable barrier. It will prevent any demons still lurking within from escaping."

Cullen looked at her sharply. "You've been maintaining a barrier since we left the chamber? At this distance?" he asked. "Enchanter, surely that's-"

"Calm yourself, Cullen," Wynne interjected. "The barrier was built into the nexus. I simply activated it. I am under no unnecessary strain."

Cullen looked relieved. "I see. Good."

Isabela was also glad that Wynne wasn't overextending herself. The last thing they needed was for the resident expert on what was going on around them to collapse. The elderly mage was already pale and drawn, and there was a barely perceptible tremor in her wrist when she reached out to pick up '_Songs of Old Marches: Inscriptions collected by Philliam, a Bard!_' from the table in front of her and page through it, apparently looking for more notes.

Wynne eventually found the page she was looking for, covered with Anders's cramped handwriting. She bent over to read it, stifling a yawn with her other hand. Isabela and Cullen exchanged a worried glance. Clearly, the templar had also noticed the enchanter's frail condition.

"Wynne," he said softly. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Mmm... the night before you met me on the coast," Wynne said absently. She reached for another page of notes, this one written by Eingana, to compare against something she'd just read.

"Have you eaten anything?" Isabela asked. She had fixed herself a light meal a few hours ago, but she hadn't seen Wynne eat since before they had descended into the Undercity the previous night.

"Not since we arrived at the estate," Wynne said, confirming Isabela's suspicion. The pirate patted Wynne on the leg and stood up.

"I'll whip you up some soup," she said. "And perhaps some rolls or bread to go with it, and cheese melted in?"

Wynne looked up at her with a warm, grateful smile. "That sounds... absolutely _delicious_. Thank you, my dear. You're very kind."

Isabela smiled back and made to leave the room. She eyed Cullen as she edged her way out from between the table and couch.

"Want to give me a hand, ser knight?" Isabela said with a mildly suggestive lilt in her voice. An image of Cullen cooking a meal for her in his heavy plate filled her mind, surreal and yet oddly domestic. Her smile became sultry. _What are the odds of bringing that vision to life, I wonder?_

Cullen shot a concerned glance at Wynne, once again absorbed in her notes. He hesitated, and then nodded, uncrossing his arms. The pirate suppressed a victorious giggle.

"Call if you need us, Wynne," Cullen said.

The enchanter scoffed at him. "Young man, I am not going to faint from the strain of sitting on a couch and reading."

Cullen smiled and shook his head. "No, I suppose you won't at that." He followed Isabela out of the room and back into the hallway.

Once they were out of earshot of the drawing room, Cullen wondered aloud, "Is putting together a bowl of soup and rolls so difficult that you need my help to do it?"

"Wynne hasn't eaten in all this time," Isabela pointed out. "It will go faster with two people."

Cullen made an "ah" face and nodded his assent.

"Of course, I might have just wanted to get you alone again," Isabela went on playfully.

Cullen reddened. "Uh, well... I..."

Isabela laughed. "You are so _cute_ when you're blushing."

Cullen proceeded to blush more deeply and ceased trying to talk. He walked beside her in determined silence, refusing even to glance at her. Eventually Isabela relented. The shy ones always took a bit more coaxing to show their hidden wild sides, but it was always worth the trouble. She could be patient. In this matter, at least.

"Still, I get that you might not want to leave Wynne alone for long periods of time," Isabela said more seriously. "She looks a bit... tired, doesn't she?"

Cullen nodded soberly, unable to hide his relief that she had changed the subject. "I suspect the journey from Cumberland wore her out, more so than she let on. We had to fight a pride demon on the way into the city. It was over fairly quickly, but Wynne called on powerful magic to make that so. Add to that defending ourselves from the spirits in Kirkwall and the undead beneath the estate..."

His brow creased. "I worry about her. She is not young. Wynne is important to a great many people for various reasons, not just because of her talent for healing. She is... a unique woman."

"I wouldn't underestimate that mage," Isabela said. "She's tougher than she looks."

"No doubt," Cullen agreed. "You knew her already, didn't you? She recognized you at the Hanged Man. When did you meet?"

"At the Pearl, in Denerim," Isabela explained. "A few months into the Blight. Wynne was with Eingana when we met."

"The... Pearl?" Cullen asked quizzically.

Isabela smiled fondly. "Oh, the Pearl's a delightful establishment. I can't believe you've never been. Well... yes I can, actually. It's like the Blooming Rose, but tastefully decorated – less blatant anatomic imagery out front – and not nearly as much venereal disease. Sanga, she was the Madame, was charming and polite. Not like that hag at the Rose."

Cullen coughed. "Right. One of those. Yes."

Isabela winked at him, entering the common room ahead of him and heading in the direction of the kitchen. "Eingana was there, going after some idiots who had set up a trap for Grey Warden sympathizers. As she was walking in, a bunch of thugs I had just beat at diamondback were attacking me. I fought them all off, and afterwards she approached me... funny story, actually – Hawke and I first met in the exact same way. Anyways, Eingana was impressed enough to ask me to pass on some dueling tips. Wynne was with her at the time, and Alistair – not the king yet – and some others who were helping her. I saw them a few more times before I left the city..."

Isabela sighed wistfully. "They were a motley group. Fascinating, though. Fun to hang around with. Not unlike the bunch of us that follow Hawke around. They seemed to have business to take care of in the Pearl rather a lot... though not as much as Hawke goes to the Blooming Rose with us." She smirked.

"Interesting story, Isabela," Cullen said dryly. "Thank you."

"Any time," Isabela replied brightly.

They entered the long kitchen, suffused in quiet grey ambient light but for the beams of sunny morning streaming in through the windows. Dust motes danced in the light between the central stone counter and the rack of assorted pots and earthenware hanging above it. At the far end of the rectangular chamber, wooden pantries stood to either side of a leather curtain that covered the entrance to the cold room.

Isabela eyed the sullen embers glowing in the hearth. It was apparent that nobody had been cooking in here for some time, which wasn't surprising, really – Bodahn had left with Sandal for the Viscount's Keep the previous day, after she had entered with Fenris.

"Hmm," Isabela mused.

"What do you need me to do?" Cullen asked politely.

Isabela indicated the pile of split firewood next to the hearth. "Build up the fire," she said. "We might need to wait awhile for it to be hot enough to make soup... I'll see what else I can put together for Wynne in the meantime. You want anything, by the way?"

"Perhaps later," Cullen said. He headed for the pile of firewood while Isabela knelt down to raid the cupboards beneath the central counter, feeling a pang of homesickness for the galley of her ship. The _Siren's Call _was many years gone, shattered into innumerable pieces by the thunder of the Arishok's dreadnought and the jagged reefs of the Wounded Coast. Yet Isabela still occasionally woke up in the middle of the night thinking she was snug in her hammock in the captain's cabin. The realization of the solidity and lack of motion of the earth beneath her bed was invariably followed by regret and yearning for the creak of wood all around her, the smell of salt, the cry of seabirds.

Isabela decided she would fix a galley soup favoured by Rivaini pirates for the elderly mage, with all the appropriate trimmings that could be found in the kitchen. She doubted Wynne would recognize the significance of the hearty meal, but that was okay. Just putting everything together the way she had done so many times before on the open ocean would be like being back on the _Siren's Call_ for a little while.

Isabela set down a bag of flour and various jars of herbs and spices on the stone counter, turning to see how Cullen was making out when she heard a loud _thwack._ The Knight-Captain was on one knee before the hearth, splitting a chunk of Nevarran locust into kindling with a small hatchet. The image was so paradoxical that she couldn't help chuckling.

Cullen glanced over at her with the hatchet gripped in his gauntleted hand, poised above the log. "What?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's just... odd," Isabela said in amusement. "Seeing you splitting wood, but wearing all that heavy armour. It's like you're afraid of cutting yourself, or something. Taken to comedic extreme."

Cullen looked down at himself with a self-deprecating smile. "I imagine Knight-Commander Meredith would say I'm bringing great dishonour upon the Order," he commented, hacking another shaving of kindling from the log.

"You've also left a powerful mage alone, with no first line of defense in the event she becomes possessed," Isabela observed. "Unforgiveable!"

Cullen's lip twisted in annoyance but he didn't comment, splitting the piece he'd just struck from the log into two smaller pieces.

"You don't seem to like Meredith much," Isabela added conversationally, leaning against the counter and folding her arms.

Cullen eyed her askance. "She has been under a great deal of strain lately," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "She needs a spine of iron to survive in her position."

"Mmmhmm."

Cullen struck another strip from the log. Isabela said nothing more and continued to watch him. He went on with apparent recklessness, "There are whispers in the Gallows that she is going mad. Knight-Lieutenant Thrask is particularly concerned. I fear..."

His voice dropped considerably. "I fear he may not be entirely wrong," Cullen finished reluctantly.

Isabela made no comment. She'd heard those same whispers, and far removed from the Gallows. She took down a large pot from the rack above her and placed it on the counter with a _clang_, thinking she might as well make enough for Merrill, Fenris, Varric, and Eingana to have some when they woke up. Whenever that would be. The sun had been up for a few hours already, but then, the solstice was barely three days past; the sun rose early this time of year. And they had certainly earned a rest after their long day and night of battling Hawke and his demonic underlings.

Isabela went to the pantry and withdrew a few paper-wrapped loaves of bread. She carried them to the counter and retrieved a large knife to cut them into slices.

"What are the odds Meredith _hasn't_ blamed the demonic attacks on the mages in the Gallows?" Isabela asked into the uneasy silence that filled the room.

"Zero. She already has," Cullen replied grimly, arranging the kindling he'd chopped on the glowing coals in the hearth. "Of course she also blames blood mages and other apostates, but then..."

"She blames everything that goes on and looks even slightly magical on blood mages and other apostates?" Isabela supplied, and Cullen nodded tersely.

"It's not to say that rogue mages aren't a threat," he went on with sudden passion on his voice. "Nor that those in the Circle are not prone to dangerous behaviour and so can be trusted to their own devices. But Meredith..." He sighed and shook his head, leaning back from the hearth on his knee. "Something strange has come over her, these last few years. She is... _paranoid_. Obsessed. It's almost like..."

Cullen didn't seem to want to continue. He was frowning bitterly at the kindling he had arranged, apparently without realizing that he was methodically breaking another piece into splinters between his hands.

"In lyrium withdrawal," Isabela guessed softly, and Cullen looked at her. He didn't answer, but the dark expression on his face was all but confirmation.

"But that... can't be," Isabela said slowly. "She's Knight-Commander. Surely-"

"I know," Cullen cut her off. "And I've looked into it, against my better judgement and behind her back. It's _definitely_ not-"

He stopped abruptly, as if worried he'd said too much. "...It's _not_... that."

He thrust the splintered kindling onto the pile he'd arranged with unnecessary force, and the whole arrangement promptly burst into flame. Cullen stared down in surprise, as if he hadn't expected his ministrations to actually bear any fruit.

"Larger pieces next, pet," Isabela said amusedly when Cullen continued to do noting. The templar nodded, cleared his throat, and began building up the fire with more chunks of locust from the pile.

Isabela watched him discreetly for a while as she sliced and buttered the bread. She went looking for some cheese and added it and the bread to a platter. There was enough to hold over Wynne and the sleepers until the soup could be prepared. To drink... it was too early in the day for ale or wine, even by Isabela's standards... water? Milk? Tea?

Isabela settled on chilled water, which would no doubt be welcome in the rising heat of the day. She went to the hand-pump in the far corner of the kitchen and filled a bucket, setting it down some ways behind the leather curtain to cool in the ice-filled room beyond.

Meanwhile, Cullen gradually built up the fire, blowing occasionally on the burning kindling to feed the flames. The hearth was soon roaring merrily, and the room warmed considerably. As the sun rose higher in the sky, it would no doubt grow more uncomfortable still.

Isabela carried the pot she'd selected over to the pump and filled it with water while Cullen went around the room, pulling on a series of ropes to open the high windows and let in the relatively cool morning breeze. Isabela hauled the filled pot over to the hearth and hung it above the flames on a hook to boil. She added a healthy dash of salt from a stone jar on the mantle.

On the other side of the room, Cullen was reaching up past a series of wooden shelves to open the last window. As he yanked down on the counterweighted rope, the flared wrist of his gauntlet knocked a tall jar of olives from its place at the edge of an adjacent shelf. The jar toppled and began to fall.

Lightning fast, Isabela darted forward as Cullen turned with a muttered curse, one hand still closed around the rope. Isabela's deft hands snagged the jar an instant before it shattered on the stone floor; Cullen's gauntlet closed ineffectually around where it had been a split second before.

Isabela straightened proudly, only half-succeeding at stifling her grin, and presented the jar to the embarrassed templar as he let go of the rope. The window was now open, allowing a humid breeze to whisper into the kitchen. Cullen's face was beet red.

"Uh... nice catch," he muttered, grabbing the jar and shoving it back onto the shelf, well back from the edge.

"Thanks," Isabela said cheerfully. "That was a near thing, huh?"

Cullen scratched the back of his head abashedly, avoiding her eyes. "Right. I'm, I'm not usually so clumsy. It's just that I'm not used to this house. Ropes pulls, you know, and… and shelves, right next to windows..."

He looked cautiously up at the pirate, his voice trailing off lamely. Isabela giggled.

"You know," the pirate suggested in mock rumination, "since we're not actively fighting demons right now, and that armour of yours seems to be just getting in the way... you might consider taking it off." Isabela ran a finger down the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on Cullen's breastplate. "It must get very _stuffy_, under all that metal. I bet you could use a break. Air things out, right?"

She was standing very close to him. Cullen's eyes shifted from side to side as if looking for an escape, but his back was to the wall beneath the window, the shelves to one side and a tall pantry to the other.

"I-I have nothing else to wear," Cullen said in weak protest. He glanced to one side and tried discreetly to move back a few inches, but the fluted ridge of his backplate was literally pressing against the stone of the kitchen wall.

Isabela scoffed. "Hawke must have something that would fit you. He won't mind. You're about the same height... his shoulders might be a bit wider than yours... but then, I've seen Hawke's shoulders. I haven't seen yours." She eyed his pauldrons suggestively and leaned in close. Cullen's breath caught in his throat when her lips brushed just barely against his cheek.

"If there's a catch or a buckle you're having trouble reaching... I could always give you a hand," Isabela purred, her breath on his skin heavy and seductive.

"Isabela," Cullen stuttered. "I... you're a very beautiful woman, a lovely woman, really, you are – I would be lying if I said otherwise. I'm sure you... well, anyway. We shouldn't – I mean, there are circumstances-"

"Shush." Isabela cut off his nervous rambling with a finger against the templar's lips. He stopped talking at once.

"Come on, you _worry_ too much," Isabela urged softly. "Live a little! Think of _yourself_ for once!"

Her gloved hands slid up and over his pauldrons as she leaned closer still, and she pressed her lips to his. Cullen let out a groan, half in protest and half in arousal. For the space of a single heartbeat, he was still; then, with a suddenness that surprised her, his hands were on her shoulders and Isabela found herself spun around and pressed against the wall. She let out a startled gasp at finding their positions abruptly reversed.

"You bloody flirtatious... beguiling... _pirate_," Cullen growled in annoyance, staring into her eyes from inches away. Isabela felt a sharp thrill of excitement fire up her spine. "You just won't take no for an answer, will you? You won't rest until you've got what you want. I'll never be free of you unless I give in."

"You don't seem to be complaining much," Isabela replied breathlessly against her lips. Her hands danced along his armour, expertly finding just the right spot to slip her fingers between articulated faulds and tease the skin of his waist.

Cullen closed his eyes with a shiver. "Maker help me," he whispered, and he kissed her again, hard. His tongue forced its way into her mouth. Gamely, Isabela allowed Cullen to assert his dominance over her for just a few moments before pushing his tongue back out of her mouth with her own.

"Mmm. Just so you know, I prefer... mmm... to be on top," Isabela whispered to him between kisses.

"Yes, I inferred as much," Cullen replied huskily. He stroked her cheek with one armoured finger. "We'll see, won't we?"

Isabela felt a tingle of excitement between her thighs. _Always_ worth the trouble, she thought with a smirk.

A genteel cough from the doorway startled them both, and they looked over in surprise to see Aveline standing just inside the kitchen with her arms folded and an expression of bland, lurking disapproval on her face.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything _important,_" the Guard-Captain said pointedly.

Cullen was blushing furiously again as he backed away from Isabela to a respectful distance. Even through her sharp disappointment and annoyance at Aveline's unwelcome intrusion, Isabela couldn't help a soft chuckle. The stoic templar really _was_ rather cute when he was embarrassed.

"Guard-Captain," Cullen said after clearing his throat a few times, his voice admirably steady. "I'm glad to see you safe. You're looking for an update on the situation with the Champion, presumably?"

"I am," Aveline said. "And I have important news of my own." She paused. "Judging from your current apparent lack of priority, may I safely assume that Hawke is contained for the moment, or something to that effect?"

Her voice was still carefully even, but Isabela swore she saw the hint of a smile cross Aveline's face.

"You are indeed correct," Cullen said. "Hawke is secure and comatose, in the Undercity a long way below us. He is sealed where nothing and no one can reach him, and he cannot reach us."

Aveline sighed in relief. "I am glad to hear that."

"There's been a complication, however," Cullen added, and Aveline looked at him sharply. "A few, actually."

"No doubt." Aveline's hard gaze slid to Isabela, and the pirate grinned and winked. Aveline shook her head. "Where is Wynne?"

"In the drawing room, studying the Warden-Commander's notes," Cullen said. "I will take you to her. She can explain what occurred beneath the city much better than I can, and I'm sure she will want to hear your news."

"Eingana will, too," Isabela pointed out. "I can go and wake her and the others, if you want. The water will be a while boiling, yet."

Aveline glanced at the pot hanging over the fire. She nodded her approval. "Very well."

Cullen glanced at Isabela and opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

"Later," Isabela mouthed, and Cullen nodded with a curious look of mixed relief and terror on his face. His roughness had all but evaporated at Aveline's presence. He headed towards the Guard-Captain, waiting in the doorway, and slipped past her out of the room in self-conscious silence.

Aveline remained a few moments longer, watching Isabela coolly as the pirate headed for the hearth. Isabela gathered a few jars from the counter as she passed, containing salt and other spices, and set them down on the mantle above the pot. She picked up a long metallic ladle and stirred the water as she added a helping of fragrant powder, totally unruffled.

"Oh, come _on_," Isabela remarked after another few moments of disapproving silence, not pausing her stirring motion as she looked up at Aveline. "If you weren't with Donnic, you would hardly say no to _that_, would you?"

Aveline rolled her eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh. She uncrossed her arms and rubbed her forehead. "Cullen is a good man," she said. "He's one of very few reasonable, cool-headed templars. I need him, _not_ like that," she clarified with annoyance as Isabela opened her mouth with a sparkle in her eye. "If you break his heart, _whore_, I will react badly."

"Duly noted," Isabela said, flicking a few generous pinches of another herb into the water, and Aveline pursed her lips.

"Tell the Warden-Commander we're in the drawing room. I'll see you in a little while." She made as if to leave, but paused halfway through turning around. Her eyes were on the water Isabela was stirring. "What are you making?"

"Rivaini broth," Isabela said earnestly. "Staple of the eastern seas. Wynne hasn't eaten since yesterday, and the others will be hungry when they wake up."

Aveline nodded. "...Save some for me," she said, almost hesitantly.

Isabela smiled at her. "Got you covered, big girl." She nodded towards the platter of buttered bread and cheese. "Take that with you when you go, would you? For Wynne."

Aveline took up the tray between her hands and departed without another word.

Isabela continued stirring and placed one hand on her hip. Slowly, her face creased into a pensive frown.

**ασυνέχεια**

Some time later, Bodahn and Sandal returned to the Hawke estate from the Viscount's Keep, not at all dissuaded by the ongoing semi-apocalyptic crisis. Bodahn insisted on fulfilling the oath of service he had sworn to Hawke, "which still holds even if Messere is possessed by a demon. After all, if we allow the demons to take away our manners and our routine, what have we left? Then the demon would win."

That was admirable, if slightly crazy. Hawke was crazy at the best of times, though, so Isabela supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that his servants were also crazy. She thought about commenting on the fact that the thing controlling Hawke was a wyrd, not a demon, but it was a minor point of semantics and Isabela was hardly inclined to explain arcane esoterica to Bodahn that she herself did not really understand.

In any case, Bodahn proved a great help in preparing the Rivaini broth – Isabela cheerfully declined his offer to take over completely, for she was having far too much fun.

Eingana descended the stairs at one point, following some internal schedule of her own. Upon following the scent of Isabela's cooking to the kitchen, the Warden-Commander was directed to the drawing room with a jug of the chilled water and mugs to pour it into. Isabela felt like the head cook of the Hawke estate, directing Bodahn to chop vegetables and bring her spices and sending commanders of various military orders – first Aveline, then Eingana – around the mansion with food items.

Later, as the soup progressed from smelling merely enticing to utterly intoxicating (Isabela's own assessment), Merrill, Fenris, and Varric drifted into the kitchen one by one, drawn by the aroma. Grateful for the opportunity to rest after their various battles the previous day, all three were now eager to get more food into them. None seemed bothered in the slightest by the idea of a typically late-afternoon or supper-style meal a few hours after sunrise. Isabela shooed Merrill and Fenris away to the drawing room, though she did recruit Varric to help carry the various foodstuffs to the smaller dining room at the rear of the estate when the soup was finally finished.

"Soup's on!" Isabela yelled inelegantly in the direction of the drawing room as Varric set the heavy, steaming pot down on the table. Bodahn had already set the table; though it was not as large as the one in the primary dining room, there were several spaces left empty. Isabela, adding a basket of rolls to the spread, counted the number of bowls Bodahn had placed; there were eight.

"You're not joining us?" Isabela asked as the dwarf placed a large jug of milk in the center of the table.

"Pardon?" Bodahn looked surprised. "Oh, no, ma'am, that's alright. Sandal and I usually eat in the kitchen – there's ample room."

"Oh, come on, Bodahn," Isabela scoffed. "Has Hawke ever told you that you can't eat with the rest of us?" She paused. "I mean, I know he can be kind of a brutal asshole, but surely he's not-"

"No, no, not at all," Bodahn assured her. Behind him, Merrill and Fenris were the first into the room, Merrill making delighted noises at the smell of soup. Eingana and Wynne followed, engaged in a discussion with Aveline and Cullen behind them. Varric had already taken his seat. Even Reaver had been drawn into the room from unknown depths of the mansion, carrying a heavily gnawed lamb bone in his mouth.

"Master Hawke was always very kind to me," Bodahn explained. "When the Lady Amell was alive, she insisted my boy and I eat in the dining room with them – bless her heart, she would never have allowed anything else!" He smiled sadly. "After she died, Master Hawke said I was welcome to continue eating with him, but he was so..."

Bodahn paused and looked down at his hands, twisting them uncomfortably. "He was – he was _different_. The poor man was never quite the same after, as I'm sure you know. It seemed rather obvious to me that he would rather be left alone, so I respected his wishes."

Isabela nodded. "I understand," she said softly. "And I'm sure he appreciated it, but Hawke's not here now. You didn't even make the food! Or you did some of it, but come on. Sit with us."

It struck Isabela how they continued to talk about Hawke in the present tense, as if everything was normal and he was merely in another room somewhere. As if he was not, rather, possessed by an ancient and incomprehensible evil and sealed by tremendous magical forces a kilometer beneath their feet. Despite the rather glaring horror of the situation, nobody seemed quite yet able to seriously consider the possibility that the Champion of Kirkwall was forever lost to them.

Bodahn hesitated momentarily, but then nodded with a grateful smile. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll just run and fetch Sandal and we'll join you shortly. No need to set places for us, I'll take care of that."

"Sounds good, Bodahn," Isabela said, and the dwarf hurried out of the room. A few conversations seemed to be going on around the room as the others settled into their seats. Varric and Merrill sat on one side with an empty space set to Merrill's left. Aveline had taken the head of the table, while Wynne, Eingana, and Fenris were seated opposite Varric and Merrill. Only Cullen remained standing, in his familiar straight-backed posture next to the fireplace.

"I will stand," the templar said when Isabela looked at him with an eyebrow raised. "I'm afraid my armour would merely damage the fine furniture."

Isabela smiled, a remark about his lack of other clothing options forming on her tongue. Cullen hastened to add, "I would still very much like to taste your soup, Isabela."

Aveline's eyebrow twitched, and Isabela smothered a giggle. The Guard-Captain rolled her eyes.

"I can hold a bowl and eat standing up just fine," Cullen went on, a flush creeping up his neck.

"If you insist," Isabela said with a salacious wink, and she started to ladle the soup into bowls as Varric passed the basket of rolls around.

"My dear," Wynne commented, "that soup smells simply divine. What is it?"

"Broth of the eastern seas," Isabela said with a trace of excitement in her voice as she filled Wynne's bowl. "Old pirate recipe. You'll love it, I promise. I haven't made it in _ages_. It was nice to do it again. Almost like... coming home," she added wistfully, more to herself than to the others in the room. Aveline, Fenris, and Varric looked at her in surprise, but Isabela barely noticed.

"Thank you, Isabela," Eingana said as she dipped a hunk of cheese into her soup. The sentiment was echoed around the room, and again with considerably more volume and enthusiasm once first tastes were had.

"Don't mention it," Isabela said, pleased. She filled a bowl and walked around the end of the table to hand it to Cullen, complete with spoon, piece of cheese and a roll already dunked.

"My thanks, Lady Isabela," Cullen said with soft grace, and Isabela smiled charmingly.

"You're very welcome, Ser Cullen."

Isabela made her way to the empty spot next to Merrill and sat, looking forward to her own bowl of soup. The elf's conversation with Varric wound down as Bodahn and Sandal entered the room. Bodahn set places for himself and his adopted son and filled their bowls with soup, offering a grateful smile and nod to Isabela. The pirate returned his acknowledgment with a grin. She started paying attention to the ongoing conversation between Eingana, Aveline, and Wynne.

"Even so," Aveline was saying. "There are a great many still here. Powerful ones, lurking in the shadows and biding their time now that their immediate source of fodder has dried up."

Aveline paused to sip a few spoonfuls of soup. From the snippets Isabela had picked up here and there, she deduced that the Guard-Captain was speaking of demons.

"I've already received multiple reports of hauntings, organized undead activity, wisp infestations... Multiple powerful abominations remain unaccounted for – a scant few Lowtowners witnessed the destruction the creatures caused and survived to speak of it to my men, and many more in Hightown. It will take a concerted effort on the part of the templars _and_ the city guard, working in unison, to cleanse the city. Of course that will depend on the templars' continued cooperation."

"I will do what I can to make that happen, Guard-Captain," Cullen said from his position near the hearth.

Aveline shot him a grateful look. "Thank you, Cullen. I appreciate it. I know it's rather a leap of faith for you to have placed your men under my command in the first place, and not the other way around... but you must understand that few of the guards trust Meredith's judgement. And though I hate to say it, I don't know if I disagree with them. For all her fire and claims to be protecting Kirkwall, Meredith seems to care little about the chaos and damage her templars cause in their obsessive search for apostates."

Cullen's lip curled sourly. "Officially, I cannot comment on the mental state of the Knight-Commander. Unofficially, however..." He sighed. "I don't blame you. It's a sad thing, but there it is." He tapped his spoon against the side of his bowl thoughtfully before swallowing another spoonful and making a blissful face. Isabela felt a little thrill of pride.

Aveline nodded grimly. "Even with the templars' help, purging the city of demons will not be easy, and it would be safest for the people of Kirkwall if they remained safe in the Keep. _All_ of them," she finished pointedly.

"No doubt, but from what I know of Kirkwall, that simply will not happen," Eingana said after tearing off a hunk of soup-drenched bread with her teeth and somehow managing to speak clearly around it. "Lowtown is holding out fine, is it not? The gangs have banded together until the crisis is over. Let the nobles simper in their fortress. The rest of the city can protect itself."

Isabela was startled by the unexpected bile in Eingana's voice. She knew as much about the Warden-Commander as anyone else, and perhaps somewhat more, having met her in Denerim years ago. Still, Isabela had never heard Eingana express such contempt for the upper classes. She wondered if Eingana's roots in the Denerim alienage had at least something to do with her distaste for nobility.

"Yes," Aveline admitted. "The problem is that since no new demons are appearing and actively attacking, superficially the crisis _is_ over. The Carta and Coterie are already starting to bicker over scavenging rights and such. The dozens of smaller gangs and guilds no doubt plan to take advantage of the chaos. If we are not careful, war may break out in the streets, and that may very well cause pandemonium the likes of which we simply cannot control."

"I agree," Cullen said. "We must do everything we can to ensure that does not happen. If I must convince Meredith myself to cooperate with the guard, then so be it. Surely she will realize that if the city is falling apart around us, we cannot effectively hunt apostates."

"And if it were not?" Fenris put in bitingly. "Do you claim to effectively hunt apostates under normal circumstances? You can barely control the ones you have."

Merrill's brow furrowed and she looked annoyed, but she said nothing and continued to eat calmly.

Cullen matched Fenris's piercing stare with an even gaze of his own. "It is true, the balance is delicate," he said. "There are mages in the city who are simply too good at hiding. We can pursue them to their lairs a hundred times and each time they will simply vanish into the sewers, the shadows, the crowds – places we cannot easily follow. Every time we fill in a hole, two more appear elsewhere in the city. We can only remain vigilant and take advantage when a mistake is made."

The Knight-Captain's eyes slid to Merrill.

"The apprehension of some mages," he added coolly, "involves... certain other difficulties."

Merrill reddened and her spoon clattered tellingly against her bowl as she dropped it from suddenly nerveless fingers, but she met Cullen's regard determinedly and refused to look away. Eventually Cullen's eyes returned to his soup, and Merrill relaxed a tiny amount. Her hands still carried a barely perceptible tremor, but there was also a subtle glow of pride about her that only Isabela noticed. She rubbed Merrill's back supportively, and the corners of the Dalish elf's mouth quirked in a small smile.

Isabela glanced at Cullen, intending to give him an intimidating _don't-you-touch-my-friend_ look, but the conversation had moved on. Cullen seemed absorbed in what was being said, and soon enough Isabela found herself following suit.

"What of the Grey Wardens?" Wynne was asking Eingana. "And your intended expedition into the Deep Roads? I imagine the invasion must have disrupted your plans."

"Somewhat," Eingana said ruefully. "There have been no casualties, fortunately. My men have holed up in their temporary outpost and defended themselves. The... changed circumstances in Kirkwall have meant unavoidable alterations to some of our plans. I do not think any serious changes will have to be made."

"That was quite a few words with no actual information offered," Fenris observed dryly.

A faint smile crossed Eingana's lips, but she didn't comment.

"How do you even know those things?" Varric wondered, pointing dramatically at Eingana with a roll. "You've been at the estate for days now, and much of that time has been spent fighting for your life. No messages have arrived for you that I know of, and I know rather a lot – if I may say so. How have you even kept in touch with the other Wardens?"

"We have means of communication outside vocal conversation and missives, Varric," Eingana said with evasive humour.

Isabela's interest was piqued intensely at that, but she knew how unlikely it was that the Warden-Commander would share such powerful secrets. The pirate wondered what kind of "means" Eingana could be referring to. Magic of some sort?

Varric looked just as interested, and so did Merrill and Fenris. Varric opened his mouth to ask, but before he'd even said anything, Eingana headed him off.

"Can't tell you," she said, visibly disappointing Merrill. "Sorry."

Varric waved his roll at her. "I get it. Dangerous knowledge and that. I can always make something up."

"Maybe they send messages by Mabari," Isabela said amusedly, gesturing with her head at Reaver, who lay happily gnawing and slobbering on his lamb bone at Cullen's feet. "He's certainly gotten us out of a few scrapes."

Reaver woofed his acknowledgement around his bone but offered no other comment.

"Is that a lamb bone?" Eingana said suddenly, leaning forward in her chair to peer around Fenris and Wynne. "Where did he get that?"

"I brought it for him," Aveline answered.

Eingana eyed the bone. "Can that count as one of mine?"

Reaver stood up and barked angrily at her, following up with a threatening growl. All the time he managed to keep the bone securely in his mouth.

Eingana held up her hands, raising her spoon protectively between her and the dog. "Alright, alright, not one of mine."

Reaver settled back down with a satisfied woof and went back to gnawing. Eingana rolled her eyes and muttered "Mabari... Anyway, I've ordered my men to continue their preparations as best they can. It may happen that they will have to leave without me. I can always catch up with Sigrun's group later on."

"But you're the Warden-Commander," Isabela pointed out. "Don't you have to be with them?"

"Not always," Eingana replied. "We all have standing orders from the First Warden. I have competent Warden-Captains who can lead the expedition in my absence."

"And..." Aveline was frowning. "Why _would_ you stay? Please don't misunderstand me – it's an honour to have you here, and your help against Hawke and his... his _unwelcome guest_ has been invaluable. But don't the Wardens have their own potentially apocalyptic problems to deal with?"

Eingana smiled thinly. "Oh, yes. That we do. Some of my men have expressed that very concern – why am I, Commander of the Grey for much of southern Thedas, 'wasting my time' dealing with Kirkwall's problems when there are other pressing matters at hand?" She shrugged tiredly. "But I do not wish the wyrd to become more powerful than it already is. If we lose Hawke to the creature, the destruction he could inflict would be catastrophic – enough that the Grey Wardens would almost certainly feel the affects one way or another. We cannot afford the additional problems that would cause."

The Warden's legendary cold-blooded pragmatism, Isabela thought.

"Aside from that, I have heard stories of Michael Hawke," Eingana went on mildly. "Fighters like him are few and far between... I suspect he will be needed."

Aveline, Fenris, and Cullen looked at her sharply. Varric looked alarmed, and Isabela felt something of a chill herself. What did Eingana know? What was coming?

It was Wynne who asked the question no doubt on everyone's mind. "What do you mean, he will be needed?" she said carefully. "Needed for what?"

Eingana shook her head, obviously troubled. "Suffice it to say that even if I am unable to join them, for whatever reason, the Wardens' expedition to the Deep Roads must go on."

Well, _that_ was reassuring. Isabela remembered all too well the horror stories Hawke had told of what he had encountered in the ancient thaig with Varric, Anders, Fenris, and Bethany. His sister had never returned at all. Isabela glanced at Varric, who looked back at her uneasily.

"I suppose that makes our task more important than ever," Wynne said calmly. "The wyrd must be defeated, whatever the cost."

"Even if that cost is Hawke's life?" Fenris said harshly.

Wynne nodded, her expression somber. "Even then. The danger the wyrd poses to the world is simply too great. I would much rather Michael live, but..."

She shook her head, her voice trailing off. Everyone was eating somewhat more slowly as the gravity of their situation settled over him. Sandal, having followed his father's example and remained respectfully silent, looked afraid. Bodahn smiled and patted Sandal's back reassuringly, but his eyes were bright with concern.

"Do you have a plan, Wynne?" Eingana asked. "What can be done?"

Wynne exhaled determinedly and set down her spoon. All eyes in the room, even Reaver's, were locked on her.

"The easiest way to ensure the wyrd can cause no more harm is to kill Michael," Wynne said softly. "I believe I could do that myself, by altering some of the sigils in the network beneath us. That would now necessitate Anders's death as well. I would much rather not resort to that option."

"And there is _another_ option?" Cullen said edgily. "One that you cannot accomplish yourself?"

"Yes," Wynne said. "My original plan was for Anders and I to employ an old Tevinter magic involving the spirits we host. Through us, they can exert a kind of pressure that would weaken the wyrd's hold over Hawke, enough that his ability to resist it by his own willpower would be magnified enough to push it out completely."

Cullen frowned and seemed to be chewing his tongue. Isabela wondered how he had taken the news that Anders was possessed; he had been silent and his face impassive throughout their journey up from the depths the previous night, and Varric hadn't mentioned how the templar had reacted.

Fenris, whose eyes had narrowed at the words "old Tevinter magic," now spoke up. "But this is also no longer possible, because the mage is imprisoned with Hawke."

"Yes," said Wynne. "That leaves only one other possibility, one that I shudder to contemplate."

She stared down at the small amount of soup still in her bowl, apparently lost in thought. The tension in the room escalated unbearably until Merrill said "What is it?" rather shrilly.

Wynne jumped. "Pardon me. I was... well, it's of no matter. The last option is for a party of fighters to enter the Fade and kill the wyrd, or drive it off."

Stunned silence descended. _Enter the Fade?_ Isabela thought. _The world of dreams..._

On one hand, it sounded interesting. Fascinating, even. What would such a place be like? Constantly changing, shaped by the spirits who dwelt therein and the minds who wandered there while their mortal bodies slept? Anything was possible in such a place. The scenery was supposed to be spectacular, even the Black City.

On the other hand, what made it intriguing also made the Fade terrifying. Entering the other world with one's mind conscious and aware would no doubt attract demons, eager to seduce their way into possession of a living host if they could not take one by force.

Aveline and Varric had crossed the Veil once before, with Anders and Hawke while attempting to protect the elf-blood boy Feynriel. Both had seemed quiet and disturbed afterwards. Isabela had resisted the temptation to ask what it had been like after partially overhearing an argument between Varric and Hawke about something that had happened between them on the other side.

Isabela had fought demons before, but that didn't mean she liked doing it. She had powerful friends who generally took the brunt of the otherworldly attacks – in particular, Hawke and Anders, because they had the most experience fighting demons, but also Fenris and Aveline. Isabela was better at slicing shades apart from behind with her knives while they moaned and slashed impotently at Aveline's shield or Hawke's plate armour.

Added to that, demons were somewhat weaker in Thedas, confined as they were by the fixed immutability of physical reality. The smarter ones had less ability and opportunity to offer temptation, and possession was rarely a risk when there were mages nearby, blatantly advertising their shiny magical prowess.

In their own world, demons would be subtler, far deadlier, and no doubt attack in much greater numbers. And there was the wyrd itself to think about – no raging, bloodthirsty warrior to distract the spirits from Isabela; the added complication of one raging, bloodthirsty warrior _helping_ the spirits attack Isabela.

"If we go into the Fade and kill the wyrd," Fenris said slowly, "then Hawke will be free. Correct?"

"I have no reason to think otherwise," Wynne said. She looked at Eingana, and the Warden-Commander's face suddenly lit up.

"That's right!" Eingana said enthusiastically. "It worked for Connor, right? Why not for Hawke?"

Cullen's eyes widened.

"Connor?" Varric asked curiously. "Who's that?"

"He was... is, I suppose, a mage of the Fereldan circle," Eingana said. "The son of Eamon Guerrin, former Arl of Redcliffe. He was just a boy during the Blight, and nobody but his mother knew he was a mage. He ended up possessed... a whole bunch of stuff happened..."

Eingana's voice trailed off, her eyes distant with memory. Varric looked interested and gestured for her to continue, but Wynne spoke instead.

"It's rather a long story," the elderly mage said with a trace of amusement. "Perhaps we can tell it another time. The point is, with the help of First Enchanter Irving, I entered the Fade and fought the demon that had possessed Connor, and he was freed from its influence."

Isabela's eyebrows shot up. "You can do that?" she asked.

"It worked then," Eingana said. "Why not now?" She paused. "Of course, killing a desire demon and killing an ancient wyrd are two rather different situations..."

Isabela nodded slowly, still confused about something. "Right... but, if you could just free a mage from possession by killing the spirit in the Fade, why hasn't Anders done that? He could be free of Justice. Why doesn't any possessed mage do that?"

Merrill looked hurt that Isabela would suggest such a thing. Fenris, on the other hand, seemed pleased.

"It's rather a difficult solution to the problem," Wynne explained. "The possessed mage cannot act of their own volition, and if the demon has already abandoned the Fade entirely, the mage's body is irreversibly mutated and there is no hope. A mage not yet so transformed would need... powerful friends, at least one mage willing to cross the Veil and fight the demon, and the resources to do so. The ritual requires lyrium and several mages to perform it – the more minds who enter the Fade, the costlier the ritual." The enchanter's face twisted in distaste. "I believe there is also a method of projecting the mind of a single mage that involves blood magic, but that is no option. Michael would be better off dead and the wyrd with him."

Merrill remained silent, her face stony. Fenris looked away and suppressed his sneer, and Eingana carefully focused on finishing her soup. Isabela exchanged a glance with Varric. By unspoken agreement, the fact that Hawke had survived the network's discharge loop only through blood magic was tactfully omitted from the conversation.

"As for Anders," Wynne continued, "his circumstances are somewhat... unusual. When Justice possessed him, the spirit was already _outside_ the Fade. He does not control Anders from the other world. They have merged utterly, and there are no means of separating them that I know of."

Isabela nodded, feeling slightly crestfallen. Anders was a bit of a dick sometimes, a stick-in-the-mud to a degree the pirate had never before seen, but she still cared about him. As a friend. A little bit. She couldn't help wondering how his personality might change if Justice were removed from the equation.

"The wyrd remains on the far side of the Veil," Wynne said. "If a party entered the Fade and was able to keep Michael under control long enough to kill it, or at least force it to abandon its host, then he would be free. He would wake in this world, and the only problem then would be opening the vault to allow him and Anders their final freedom."

"If Anders is in the Fade too, could he help us fight the wyrd?" Merrill asked.

Wynne gestured her ignorance with a pained expression. "I do not know what the wyrd may have done to him. Spirits as powerful it is can easily dominate the minds of lesser demons and bend them to their will. I fear it may try to beat Anders into submission to gain control over Justice's powers. I doubt Anders could resist whatever torture the wyrd could conjure... no mortal could. Justice might, for a time."

"Are you saying," Varric asked nervously, "that we might have to fight _Justice_ as well? That it would _defend_ the wyrd?"

"Yes," Wynne said heavily. "It is a strong possibility."

Silence.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Cullen spoke up, "but if we are to save Hawke from the wyrd, then we will need to send many across the Veil to fight it. One mage will not be enough."

"That's right," Wynne said.

"And as you mentioned," Cullen went on, "the more minds that enter the Fade, especially if they are not mages, the costlier the ritual, and the more mages are needed to cast it."

"Indeed."

"How many mages do we have?" Cullen finished. He stared at Merrill, and Merrill stared back, with her jaw set stubbornly.

"Two," the elf said.

Cullen nodded, his eyes steely. "Just two? No more?" He looked around the table.

"Just two, Ser Cullen," Aveline confirmed, and Cullen sighed.

"Then we need more. If we are to save the Champion, we will need _many_ more."

"I... might be able to help with that," Eingana offered hesitantly. "I have a few mages under my command. They may choose not to help, but I will ask. And there are... there are always other places I could find the help we need."

"Other places?" Cullen asked mistrustfully. "What places are those, Warden-Commander? Surely you cannot mean the Circle. I would command them to aid us myself if I thought the Knight-Commander would allow it."

"No, not the Circle," Eingana said cautiously. "I have a strong feeling you will not approve of the mages I have in mind, Cullen, but I assure you they are not... I mean, they mean no... they can be trusted." She looked frustrated. "I cannot say any more at this point. I don't even know if I can get word to them in time, or if they'll agree to help, but if they do, what would their origins matter? The point is to save Hawke, isn't it? We might as well just kill him otherwise."

Aveline, Wynne, and Fenris were all frowning suspiciously. Isabela looked at Varric, wondering if he might have any idea what Eingana was talking about, but the dwarf shook his head and shrugged.

"Are to referring to a community of apostates?" Wynne asked.

Eingana's face was pinched. "Well... ye-e-s... _technically_ they are apostates..." She grunted. "So are my Wardens who are mages, but the Chantry lets them be in the interest of containing the darkspawn threat, yes? If we are to do this, we will _need_ apostates. Cullen said himself that the Circle cannot help us."

Wynne sighed. "That is true. I suppose we have no choice. Two mages is simply not enough, and at least one must enter the Fade with the group to fight the wyrd. They will have no chance otherwise."

Varric raised his hand uncertainly. "Uh... this may be a long shot, but Blondie was involved in a mage underground at one point. I'm not sure what they're up to these days... and really, we'd need Blondie to get access to their full resources... but some of his contacts and some of _my_ contacts, er, walk in the same circles, so to speak. I might be able to call in a few favours."

"I know some people who know some people," Isabela offered. "I can do some hunting, too. No guarantees, but it's worth a shot, isn't it?"

She looked at Cullen, and the templar grimaced back. He set down his nearly-empty bowl of soup in front of Reaver, and the hound licked it eagerly. Cullen rubbed his forehead with a long-suffering sigh.

"The things I overlook for the Champion of Kirkwall," he muttered.

"I certainly hope you'll overlook this," Merrill spoke up with sudden vehemence. Isabela and Varric looked at her in surprise; Cullen was shocked speechless. Even Merrill herself seemed surprised by her courage, but she barreled on determinedly. "How many times has Hawke helped you, ser knight? How much has Hawke done for all of Kirkwall, and for everyone in this room?"

She looked around. Isabela and Varric were nodding their agreement. Fenris scowled, but he offered no objection. Aveline looked reluctant, but eventually she nodded as well.

"Isn't it time we did something for him?" Merrill finished triumphantly. "We should at least _try_, if we can. We owe it to Hawke. And Anders, too – he's saved all our lives. _All _of us, lots of times." She looked pointedly at Fenris.

"I know," the other elf spat. "I'm not objecting. But if you decide to invite unknown mages here to perform potent and dangerous magic, simply know that I will be watching, very carefully. I will _not_ stand idly by and allow them to inflict their vile powers on me or anyone else. If we need magic to save Hawke, then so be it. That does not mean its practitioners can be trusted."

"I must concur," Cullen said. "It is only for Hawke that I would ever consider turning a blind eye to such practices, let alone _participating_. Whatever we decide, we must be cautious. If we're all killed and drained by blood mages, we will have accomplished nothing, and Hawke will not thank us. Neither will the people of Kirkwall."

"Agreed," Aveline said. "We can be of aid to no one if we're dead."

Merrill nodded. "Obviously."

"There is one other problem," Wynne said. "We will need lyrium. A great deal of it, if all or most of us are to enter the Fade."

Isabela tried not to feel her hopes dashed to pieces. "Shit!" she exclaimed. "Where could we go?"

The pirate glanced apologetically at Cullen and said hesitantly, "The black market? It would be dangerous and expensive, but..." Really, what choice did they have?

Varric coughed uncomfortably. "Um..."

All eyes were on him in an instant. Cullen's jaw was set in a way that suggested he was steeling himself for further unwelcome information.

Varric scratched his head uncomfortably. "You all know what happened when Anders and Hawke and I went after that demented templar, right? Alrik?"

Cullen's frown, already severe, became outright hostile. "_You_? You killed Ser Alrik?"

"He was crazy," Varric said defensively. "Seriously. And it wasn't me who killed him. Hawke did. Anders helped him out quite enthusiastically. Or... it was Justice, I guess. Both of them kind of... went at him, and it was really _nasty_." He shuddered, remembering the way Hawke's sword had cleaved effortlessly through Alrik's head and wishing dearly that the image wasn't burned so vividly into his mind.

"There was barely anything recognizable _left_ of him," Cullen said angrily. "What possible legitimate reason can you have had for murdering an entire squadron of templars? Because their leader was 'crazy'?"

"The other templars attacked _us_. It was self-defense," Varric said testily. "Granted, Hawke had just completely ruined their commander's shit, but they could have backed off. I know I would have, after watching my superior die like that."

The dwarf's face soured. "And I don't regret it, either. When we came across Alrik, he was making advances on a helpless mage. He was threatening to make her Tranquil because she had tried to reach her mother, who had no idea where she had been taken. The way Alrik was coming on to her, it was like he was going to make her into a... a mindless sex toy, or something. It was disgusting. I certainly would have been tempted to kill him myself if Hawke and Justice hadn't beaten me to it, but the other templars just stood there and _watched_."

The Knight-Captain breathed through his teeth with an angry hiss. "Ridiculous. Alrik was a fanatic, certainly... perhaps a mite overzealous... but he would never-"

"He wanted to make Tranquil every mage in Thedas," Varric interrupted. "_Every single one_. Anders found documents on him that proved it. He showed them to me afterwards. Now I'm no fan of mages – or templars, for that matter – but you can't tell me that isn't too far. The guy was insane. Maker's breath, he was a genocidal maniac!"

Cullen was stunned. He stared at Varric with his lips parted, his expression frozen.

Wynne had her hand over her mouth. "Every mage in Thedas?" she whispered with incredulous horror. "Surely not."

"It's true," Varric said. "The letter Anders showed me said exactly that." Or he thought it had, at least. It had been a long time. Regardless of its exact wording, the intent of the letter had been clear.

Wynne shook her head with her eyes closed.

"Meredith and the Divine both rejected the idea," Varric added helpfully. "I don't think you need to worry about it actually happening. But the way Alrik was acting towards that mage..." He shivered. "Anders thought he was planning to do it anyway, with or without authorization from the Chantry. I never saw any evidence of that myself, but I wouldn't be surprised. Alrik was nuts and he deserved to die."

Isabela glanced at Cullen, but the templar still seemed in shock, absorbing the impact of what Varric had said. He was staring at his hands with a stricken expression on his face.

"What does this have to do with lyrium, Varric?" Eingana said, tactfully bringing the conversation back around to where it had started. "You mentioned something..."

Varric nodded, relieved to be back on topic. "Right. My question was, did Hawke or Anders tell any of you what we encountered in the tunnels, _before_ we caught up with Alrik?"

He looked around. There were no affirmative answers.

"Well, we ran into some lyrium smugglers," Varric said. He hesitated. "They had quite a lot with them... refined product, en route to the Gallows to supply the black market there for the templars."

Cullen's face twisted, but he didn't look up and he said nothing.

"I thought it would be pretty easy to just notify the Merchants' Guild," Varric said with exasperation. "Trickle it back in to the legitimate lyrium economy, you know. Get myself some points with the Guild that wishes I were more like my crazy kalna brother. Not so simple, as it turned out."

Eingana's eyebrows were arched wryly. "You kept the lyrium."

"There were... awkward questions," Varric protested weakly. "Hostile stares. Whisperings of _treachery_. It was bad. I couldn't just... but I couldn't just _leave_ it there, either! It was starting to sprout! What was I _supposed_ to do? Dump refined lyrium into the ocean?"

Aveline shook her head and pinched the bridge of her noise. "Varric, please tell me it's at least locked away, in secure containment."

"Of course it is," Varric said, affronted. "I'm not stupid, Aveline. It's all safe and tucked away. I just thought, I might as well keep it safe, you know... in case..." He trailed off lamely.

"In case the Champion was possessed and it became necessary to send a group of fighters into the Fade to save his mind?" Cullen said incredulously.

"Well, not that specifically," Varric said. "But it worked out, didn't it? What would we have done if I hadn't?"

Cullen rubbed his mouth and said nothing more. Isabela searched his face for some trace of amusement or good humour, but the templar was carefully impassive.

"How much lyrium do you have, Varric?" Eingana asked neutrally.

"Quite a bit. Eight medium-sized containers."

Cullen's eyes widened, and Wynne looked startled. Fenris let out a whistle.

"That'll be enough, I take it," Aveline said.

"More than enough," Wynne confirmed.

Isabela had another question. "Why didn't you _sell_ it, Varric?" she asked. "To the templars? You know, under the table? You could have made a fortune!"

Cullen shot her a dirty look, as did Wynne. Aveline's frown was faintly disapproving, but Isabela swore she saw a gleam of resigned amusement in the Guard-Captain's eye.

"No offense, ser knight," Isabela said placatingly to Cullen. "I'm sure you're completely on the straight-and-narrow. But you have to admit..."

Cullen let out an annoyed sigh. "Yes, I know. You have a point."

"I'm shocked that you would suggest such a thing, Rivaini," Varric said in mock outrage. "Shocked and _hurt_. I'm a businessman, not a criminal."

Isabela smiled knowingly and gave him a demure nod. "Of course, Varric."

"Well then," Eingana said authoritatively. "We know what we need to do. Isabela will see if she can track down any apostates who might be willing to help. Varric will get us the lyrium we need and also see about finding some able-bodied mages. I'll send word to my Wardens and have them pass on a message to my other friends."

"I suppose I will begin making preparations for the ritual," Wynne said. "If I work under the assumption that we will have everything we need, I can cut down on the time it would take to set everything up as required."

"I'll help, if I can," Merrill said. "The elvehn once practiced a ritual much like this, to send the revered elders into _uthenera_ – the endless dream. How much different can it have been?"

Nearly everyone had finished their soup by now, so Bodahn arose and began to collect the dishware, helped somewhat by Sandal. Isabela stretched in her seat, her spirits lifted by the nostalgic taste of the Rivaini broth and the satisfaction of hearing everyone's compliments on the deliciousness thereof. Even so, apprehension lurked just beneath the surface of her thoughts, threatening every moment to erupt into full-blown terror.

"I must return to the Keep," Aveline said as she stood. "I will check back in later in the day. If possible, I would like to accompany whatever party enters the Fade to fight the wyrd. I owe it to Hawke."

"Your blade would certainly be welcome," Eingana said. Wynne nodded her agreement.

"Hey, Broody," Varric said to Fenris. "I don't suppose you want to come with me? In case there are... incidents, like? A crazy elf with a big sword is always handy to have around during a demon invasion." He smiled charmingly.

Fenris raised one eyebrow and seemed to be suppressing a smile. "Very well, dwarf. I will accompany you."

"And leave me on my own?" Isabela pouted. "Nothing like solidarity in times of crisis, huh?"

"Oh, be quiet, Rivaini," Varric said amusedly. "You can come too. Strength in numbers. We'll stick together until we have to split up."

Isabela tried not to let her relief show too obviously on her face. "Alright then."

Merrill and Wynne were heading in the direction of the drawing room, already immersed in an arcane discussion of the details the ritual would involve. Aveline gave Reaver a hearty pat, exchanged a few quiet words with Cullen, and departed soon after, thanking Bodahn on the way out. Eingana stayed a while longer to help with the cleanup, following the dwarves out of the room with the empty milk jug set inside the soup pot, all balanced on one of the trays that had held bread and cheese.

"You guys go on and get what you need," Isabela said to Varric and Fenris, seeing Cullen hesitating by the hearth. "I'll meet you in the common room."

"Don't take too long," Varric said dryly, noticing where the pirate's attention lay. Isabela gave him an amiable shove, and Varric left the room on Fenris's heel. After a moment, Reaver got up and followed them, and Isabela wondered if she would be able to convince the dog to come with her. She would certainly feel better wandering around the probably-demon-infested Undercity with the massive Mabari hound at her side.

Isabela sauntered over to Cullen, who was watching her warily, and offered him a bright smile.

"A plan is hatched," she commented. "Let's hope it works, eh?"

"Lady Isabela," Cullen said evenly. "Please take care of yourself. I would hate to discover you were injured or worse in your search for illegal mages." His face twisted in annoyance, and he rubbed his forehead. "Maker guide me, but I could be expelled from the Order for this."

"Oh, you'll be fine," Isabela said encouragingly. "What that crazy loon of a Knight-Commander doesn't know can't hurt her."

"Uh huh," Cullen said noncommittally.

Isabela glanced around to make sure they were alone, and then stepped in closer to Cullen, placing her hands against his breastplate. "Don't you worry about me," she said softly. "I couldn't not come back and leave you all growly and unsatisfied."

Cullen's hands slid up her sides, and Isabela felt a tingle of delight despite the cold metal of his gauntlets. The Knight-Captain leaned in to kiss the side of her face just below her ear, and Isabela stifled an aroused moan.

"Don't take too long," Cullen whispered in her ear. "The longer you make me wait, the... er... _growlier_ I'll become." He pulled his head back to see her and smiled uncertainly.

"Is that so?" Isabela asked with a throaty giggle. She smiled back at Cullen, but hers was wicked. "Perhaps I'll take my time, then."

Cullen trailed one metallic finger down her cheek. "May the Maker guide y-"

Isabela silenced him with a kiss, her fingers curling against his armour.

"None of that," she murmured against his lips. "Let's keep this between you and I, ser knight. I'll be back soon." She flashed him a seductive smile and slipped away. Cullen's hands slid down her arms as she parted from him, falling back to his sides slowly. In the space of a heartbeat, Isabela had disappeared from the room, darting down the halls of the Hawke estate to catch up with Varric and Fenris.

Cullen's eyes lingered in the doorway where he had lost sight of her, and he rubbed his chin with a heavy sigh. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of cobwebs of lust and something else than ran much deeper and was considerably more confusing.

"May the Maker guide your path, Lady Isabela," Cullen whispered to nobody in particular, and he left, heading for the drawing room.

**Ω**


	24. Eye of the Storm

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Eye of the Storm"**

Slowly, cautiously, the sun wandered across the sky. Shadows shrunk and lengthened again.

Puffy clouds raced indifferently past overhead, pushed by a continuous healthy breeze from the sea. The stench of death was carried away; the numerous palls of smoke rising from Kirkwall diminished as fires were brought under control. No new spirits forced their way through the tattered Veil, whether mindless rage demon or something more intelligent, and so no new fires were started – by demons, at least. From a distance, the city appeared to be calming down. Up close, it was clear that the opposite was true.

In Hightown, a loose collective of blood mages arose from the fractured social strata to emerge as the dominant authority by sunset. These Bloodragers attacked anyone who was not a member of their organization on sight, looting freely from ruined warehouses and abandoned estates. Some were possessed by demons of desire or pride, some of those even twisted into abominations. All were merciless in taking what they wanted.

Their core fodder consisted of enslaved spirits, but as morning gave way to afternoon and afternoon to evening and the mages supplemented their private armies with enthralled humans, elves and dwarves, their numbers grew and grew. Servants, footmen, merchants, city guards, templars, and even some nobles – anyone who could be caught by surprise or unprepared, or overwhelmed with superior numbers, or was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time – all were captured and dominated.

Under orders from Knight-Commander Meredith, the templars abandoned their guardsmen allies and took the fight to the Bloodragers directly, with moderate success. The mages alone could do little against the full might of a squadron of the Order, but were uniformly ruthless in sending their thralls in waves to die at templar hands. Meredith's orders were unequivocal: no quarter was offered, nothing was spared. But every mage the templars eliminated cost them dearly; almost as many of the holy warriors were possessed or sucked dry by lurking demons, or perished in wisp-infested mansions, as were killed by blood thralls.

Without the martial prowess and annulment magic of the holy warriors, the ability of the city guards to combat the Bloodragers and protect the populace was severely diminished. The men and women of the guard had the advantage of Aveline's competent, exacting leadership, as well as the aid of Ser Thrask and a number other templars who abandoned the Order in disgust after hearing the Knight-Commander's orders. Even so, the guards and their few allies fought a losing battle as the day wore on, giving up more and more ground until they were forced, finally, to retreat into the Viscount's Keep. They took with them every surviving human, elf, and dwarf that could be rescued from the shattered infrastructure. By the time the sullen vesper bell resounded from the Chantry's spires, the Keep was one of only three bastions of safety remaining in Hightown.

Throughout the long day, more than a few templars were traumatized by what they witnessed happening to their comrades at the hands of demons and blood mages while they fought futilely to prevent it. As a result, templars abandoned the Order in unprecedented numbers. Some wandered off in states of semi-lucid madness to die alone at the hands of demons or gangs, or submit to blood enthrallment. A few committed suicide. Most joined their renegade brethren in the Keep, choosing to protect the surviving civilians rather than dash themselves to pieces against tides of blood thralls while the mages responsible escaped.

Thus the Order's numbers fell steadily, both in combat and to desertion. Dark rumours cropped up here and there that Meredith was turning to unscrupulous means to replenish her ranks. Everything from kidnapping and forced lyrium addiction to, incredibly, demon worship and blood magic was said to be authorized by the Knight-Commander for the purposes of "emergency recruitment." Almost nobody took these tales seriously, and yet somehow they persisted, growing ever more elaborate and reprehensible with each retelling.

One of the few other safe havens in Hightown was the Chantry. Its massive doors were sealed and locked against the violence outside, its fires dark and its windows shuttered. Protected by old magic imbued into the very stone of the edifice by the original dwarven builders, those who lived and worked in the Chantry huddled in the sanctuary with everyone who had the fortune – or misfortune – to be within when the pandemonium in the streets became unavoidable. The Order made numerous attempts to reach the Chantry and those trapped within; every attempt was determinedly rebuffed by the Bloodragers operating out of nearby estates. The mages could not crack the shell of Chantry itself to get at the soft, valuable bodies within, but they nevertheless seemed to take a certain savage pleasure in preventing the templars from reaching their beloved place of worship.

The final place one could find safety in Hightown was, inevitably, the Hawke estate.

Around midday, while Eingana, Isabela, Varric, Fenris, and Reaver were still out combing the Undercity for help, Hightown Square was hosting chaotic battles with rapidly increasing frequency. Both the templar loyalists and the city guard clashed repeatedly with the Bloodragers and their enslaved mobs at the base of the Keep.

Less than an hour after the sun had passed its zenith, the mansion was infiltrated by several shades that had been cut loose from the will of a slain Bloodrager outside. The spirits were drawn to Wynne and Merrill at once, seeking the warm lantern-glow of their magic like moths in darkness. Only Cullen's skill with his sword and an impromptu enchantment on the part of Sandal ensured the safety of all involved.

The shades were defeated, but the incident made frighteningly clear the fact of Kirkwall's deteriorating condition. Rampaging demons had given way to rampaging mages, who in turn released rampaging demons upon their deaths. Cullen was anxious for the well-being of his comrades, not to mention Aveline and the people she laboured to protect. He was sorely tempted to set out in search of news from the Gallows or the Keep, risks be damned; Wynne eventually convinced him to stay. Meredith's orders, after all, had been for the Knight-Captain to remain with his charge until her business was completed, which it was not.

Still, the fact remained that the estate was not secure. Wynne and Merrill combined their powers to seal the windows and doors with impermeable barriers, locking out lesser demons and Bloodrager thralls as well as reflecting magical attack. Sandal proved a great help in shoring up the mansion's walls with diffuse but powerful enchantments, but he could only accomplish so much with the lyrium on hand. Bodahn took to carrying a weapon with him at all times and rarely allowed his adopted son out of his sight. At Cullen's suggestion, Merrill and the dwarves began to seal unused rooms and corridors, transferring the barriers to interior thresholds so as to reduce the necessary mana upkeep and limiting the enchantments to an enclosure of walls that surrounded the areas in which they worked.

Far below in Lowtown, the threat of demons and blood mages was not nearly as prevalent. Instead, the danger was largely from mundane mortals. Minor skirmishes between rival gangs competing for scavenging rights had erupted into full-blown inter-faction warfare by midmorning. The templars and city guards stationed in Lowtown found themselves caught in the midst of increasingly violent battles between the Carta, the Coterie, and any number of smaller guilds intending not only to endure the crisis but determined not to emerge from it empty-handed. Cut off from contact with Hightown by the conflicts in both city quarters, the guardsmen could only protect the hapless populace to the best of their ability. The Hanged Man was transformed into a makeshift base of operations, with most of the guards and templars attempting to enforce a relatively small safe zone centered on the tavern and encouraging civilians to seek shelter within their perimeter.

The templars proved invaluable to this effort, not the least because of their abilities to deflect the hostile magic of Coterie alchemists and other gang-affiliated apostates. Unlike the city guards, however, the Order's lines of communication remained intact. As the day dragged interminably onward, more and more templars were diverted to search the city for apostates allegedly responsible for the demonic invasion, or were recalled to fight in Hightown. Consequently, the borders of the area in which the guards could ensure safety gradually receded.

Throughout the day, the elven alienage remained stubbornly locked. Its gates rarely opened to admit returning inhabitants, and even then only long enough for the panicky elves to hurry inside. The leaves of the vhenadahl rustled calmly in the breeze, hovering above the broken skyline with a mocking promise of forbidden shade. None among the warring gangs believed the alienage possessed anything of value, and so they generally left it alone. Humans and dwarves disinterested in the conflict sought it out for the exact same reason, but their frantic pleas for shelter or aid were ignored. Few of the alienage's inhabitants could muster any sympathy for the population that had trodden over them for so long. From the safety of their walls, protected by the powerful enchantments of apostates within, the elves thus watched the City of Chains falling apart around them and sneered.

In the midst of the bedlam consuming the city, some thought to wonder what had become of their Champion, the man who had once saved them all from a choice between conversion to the Qun or brutal, merciless death. Where was Michael Hawke, who had done nothing, it seemed, but fight and kill since he had landed in Kirkwall and was now nowhere to be found? Where was the Champion who had slaughtered countless demons and criminals alike, who was supposed to keep his city from succumbing to this kind of bitter self-inflicted destruction?

Only a very small number knew the answer, and when this elite few encountered those who knew they knew, they invariably could not bring themselves to truthfully answer these frantic questions. Not Varric, not Fenris and not Isabela were willing to admit it to themselves, but the possibility still existed, lurking in their minds like a latent unexpressed disease, that they would fail in their desperate endeavour; that Hawke would fall to the wyrd and it would break free of its prison; and finally that the new Champion would rise from the depths and bring unimaginable ruin and suffering to the city he had once saved. The idea that the rampant calamity engulfing Kirkwall was a mere precursor to the storm that might well follow was too terrifying even to contemplate, and so they simply did not do it. There was no other choice. In these circumstances, hope was a rare and valuable commodity, and those who had it could do little other than cling to it jealously.

**ασυνέχεια**

The sun was four hours past its zenith when Isabela and Reaver at last returned to the summit of the grand staircase that connected Hightown and Lowtown. The pirate had felt uncomfortably vulnerable throughout her long climb, even with the massive Mabari hound at her side. They were exposed rather blatantly for a considerable distance, the shadows along the edges of the staircase being disappointingly few. There was hardly anywhere she could hide and nowhere to flee to if it became necessary to do so.

Isabela had compensated for her apprehension by taking the stairs at a brisk jog, channeling her nervous energy into negotiating the risers at a steady, rapid pace. Reaver kept up easily, enjoying the exercise. The result, however, was that Isabela was panting and worn out by the time she reached the top. It was a gamble: if any trouble had been waiting for her there, Isabela would have been hard-pressed to defend herself without first being able to rest. Even Reaver, though he was in excellent physical condition for a Mabari, was panting industriously when they finally reached Hightown.

Isabela bent over to catch her breath. She supported herself with one hand on her thigh and pressed the heel of the other against a stitch in her side, trying to loosen the knot of pain. Despite the intense exertion, neither Isabela nor Reaver had once stopped or even slowed down during their arduous ascent. Both had witnessed the escalating conflict in the streets during her search for amenable apostates, and had barely escaped with their lives more than once. Isabela had no reason to think things would be any different in Hightown.

To her intense relief, Varric and Fenris appeared nearby after a few moments, evidently having been waiting for her out of sight. All three had previously agreed to meet around this time of day and to wait for the others if they were first to reach the staircase's summit. Isabela was glad to see that neither Varric nor Fenris appeared any worse for the wear, though by their expressions – Varric dispirited and Fenris sulky – they had had about as much success in finding help as she had.

Reaver wagged his stubby tail, also excited to see their friends, but was wise enough not to attract attention through joyful barking. Isabela made a mental note to thank Hawke for the use of his dog if both of them survived with their minds intact. She might not have survived the afternoon without his help, his quietly woofed warnings and his snarling at assailants, always at just the right moment. Sometimes Reaver was intelligent enough that it toed the line between "astonishingly useful" and "downright creepy."

"Any luck?" Varric asked her as she approached, though he clearly wasn't expecting an affirmative answer.

Isabela wished she could have surprised him, but facts were facts. "No," she said, annoyed. "Everyone I talked to who knows an apostate says they've all gone to ground. Meredith's cracking the whip hard, apparently. Although," the pirate added, "I _can_ now say with certainty that I would be dead if not for Hawke' dog."

She smiled down at Reaver; typically, the Mabari made a soft woof that managed to convey the sentiment of "you're welcome" without actually speaking the words.

Varric's wan smile soured quickly. He nodded. "We heard the same thing. Saw a bit of it, too. I might have been able to scrounge up _someone_ if I only had access to Blondie's network, but..." He spread his hands and shook his head. "As far as I know, he hasn't even been in touch with them for months – not since Alrik. Our options were fairly limited."

"So what now?" Isabela asked. "Keep looking? Anders and Hawke are counting on us."

Isabela experienced a brief, surreal moment when the world around her seemed for an instant to be utterly alien and unknowable. Included in _us_ was, implicitly, _me_. Maker, how had her life turned into this? People _counting_ on her. Isabela the pirate, risking her own skin for others. The rewards intangible, nebulous, and by no means assured. And – strangest of all – she didn't even care! She was doing it of her own volition! Terrifying.

_Can I really be this person?_ Isabela couldn't help wondering, wryly cynical. _I'm a pirate... a lying, thieving scoundrel... _or so it had once seemed. The thought that she might be anything else had somehow never occurred to her before now. Had it been a mistake, allowing herself to become soft like this, attached to this cesspool of a city and the people in it?

Or had her mistake been in thinking that love that went deeper than skin was a dangerous weakness?

A memory came upon Isabela abruptly: herself at the Pearl in Denerim, speaking to her old friend and occasional lover Zevran while Eingana dealt with some of her mysterious ever-present "business." The suave Antivan elf had marveled at Eingana's ability to get things done, and to get other people to do things she wanted done.

Isabela had much in common with Zevran. They arose from similar roots and maintained compatible worldviews. And yet Isabela would never have expected Zevran to follow around some crazy Grey Warden from a Fereldan alienage and develop things like affection and loyalty.

Hawke was the same, Isabela realized. She wouldn't have returned to Kirkwall with the Tome of Koslun for anyone else.

Well... maybe for Eingana Tabris. She and Hawke were of a kind. How fortunate Isabela was, really, to have met two such people in her life, people with the rare and bizarre capacity to warp those around them into a cohesive band of deadly world-changers in the face of all hardship and violent personality clashes. What were her odds, Isabela wondered, for meeting a third?

The pirate blinked out of her impromptu introspective reverie when she realized her friends were talking.

"We'd just be wasting our time," Fenris was pointing out, presumably in answer to her question. "If there _are_ any mages who have not gone into hiding to avoid Meredith's purge, they are blood mages or Coterie alchemists fighting openly against it. There is little point trying to persuade such people to help us."

Once she'd caught herself up on what he was saying, Isabela realized Fenris was correct. _Damn_. So much for that plan.

"No apostates for us," she summarized. Fenris quirked an eyebrow at her.

Varric was nodding, though he didn't look any happier than Isabela did. "Back to the estate, then," he said. "Do you think it's as bad up here as it is in Lowtown?"

"I hope not," Isabela said with a grimace. "Let's keep the shadows, shall we?"

"Excellent plan," Fenris assented, and Reaver made a muffled snort of agreement.

To their unanimous annoyance, Isabela, Varric, Fenris, and Reaver soon discovered that the situation in Hightown was _not_ as bad as that in Lowtown – it was worse. The first indication was the battle they encountered upon not ten minutes into their furtive journey through Hightown.

Until they reached the market square, the travelers saw not a single soul or even any sign of movement. Only the breeze disturbed the stillness of empty streets. With Hightown's usual daily bustle utterly absent, the streets and squares seemed huge. The reverberating echo through the vast open spaces produced by even the slightest noises was eerie, but oddly soothing.

Of course, the illusion of desertion was not quite perfect. Clashes, screams, booms, and demonic howls frequently reached their ears from far-off battles. The stone of the streets beneath their feet thrummed every now and then with distant, thunderous power. Though it might have been nice to take a leisurely walk through the empty streets of Kirkwall, none of the four travelers let their guard down for a moment.

Reaver's soft, menacing growl formed a continuous undercurrent to the trek, his eyes and ears alert for any potential threat. Fenris was similarly edgy, carrying his sword unsheathed and on his shoulder, ready to fly into action at the first sign of trouble. Varric shadowed the tall elf and kept his finger on Bianca's trigger, glancing behind them periodically to check for signs of imminent ambush. Isabela took it upon herself to scout ahead, pointing out a number of shadowy side alleys and greenery-choked overhangs through which the party could slip and remain unobtrusive in case anyone or anything was watching.

The pirate knew her caution would probably amount to nothing; if they passed through some demon-haunted locus or intruded on the territory of a riled-up gang, there was little chance of avoiding detection before it was too late. Even so, Isabela would rather be overly careful and avoid losing blood than flounce blithely through a city crippled with demonic infestation and indiscriminate street warfare, and end up paying a heavy price for her recklessness.

As it turned out, the chaos in the immense market square was obvious long before they reached it. Isabela peered around a corner into the square as Varric, Fenris, and Reaver approached with carefully silent footsteps.

The square was devastated. Most of the various stalls and booths were nothing more than heaps of shattered, charred debris. More than one continued to burn. A few of the vine-festooned pillars in the center of the square had been reduced to rubble, and not one of the surviving pillars was totally intact. Even the polished stone blocks that made up the square's surface showed signs of extensive damage, including craters, cracks, bloodstains, and various black char marks.

Amidst the depressing wreckage, a group of templars was succumbing to attack by a strange, assorted mob comprised of both spirits and fleshier fighters. Isabela's eyes darted among the motley attackers in bewilderment, counting their numbers as best she could and determining the threat each posed. She had never seen anything like this in her life, and while part of her could find morbid amusement in the scene, she was mostly struck by fear and revulsion.

Bedraggled elves with the look of servants fought beside humans and dwarves decked out in a bewildering array of dress. Some wore heavy armour clearly meant for battle, or lighter plate favoured by stealthy street ambushers. Others fought incongruously wearing the ornate finery of various Kirkwall noble families or the dwarven Merchant's Guild. Amongst those mindlessly assaulting the holy knights, Isabela spotted everyone from footmen whose armour carried assorted Hightown heraldries to city guards and common street thugs. There was even a treacherous templar, turned against his former fellows through means unknown, and a slender elven apostate attacking from afar with balls of fire. Some of the attackers carried weapons; others threw themselves against the armoured templars armed with nothing but chunks of masonry or their bare fists.

Such a spectacle alone might have made sense in some contexts, given the current political climate, but there was also the fact of the shades slipping amongst the mortal fighters that surrounded the templars on all sides. The spirits wove and swirled through whatever gaps opened up long enough for them to reach through and hungrily absorb all the vital force they could drain from the templars. Curiously, the rather more numerous fleshy mortals attacking the knights seemed to be exempt from the spirits' thirst.

One of several rage demons bellowed its fury, hurling itself repeatedly against a templar's battered shield even as what appeared to be a dwarven Carta assassin leapt at the knight from behind with daggers raised. A lumbering abomination was happily laying waste to everything around it, templars and Hightowners alike. A few of the howling spirits took advantage of their fellow attackers falling to the templars' blades and possessed them as they died, so that a some of those slain got right back up and attacked the horrified templars once more.

Meanwhile, two city guards hung back from the battle, one armed with a longbow and the other with a mace and shield. They seemed to be protecting a desire demon as it gestured its clawed hands, working some sinister magic against the templars. One of the armoured fighters, protected by his comrades, had his hands aloft and alight with lyrium-glow as he fought to annul the demon's spell. As Isabela watched, horrified, the templar collapsed to his knees in exhaustion. The desire demon made a triumphant clenching gesture; magical frost condensed from the air around the knight and froze him solid in a heartbeat. The throng of varied assailants immediately closed in, seemingly uncaring how many of their number the templars cut down mercilessly even as they were overwhelmed.

"Andraste's ass," Varric whispered as he edged around Isabela to get a look, his voice barely audible over the screams and shouts and clashes coming from the square. The pirate had not moved since she had reached the corner, transfixed and appalled by the surreal combat raging before her. "What in the Void is going on here?"

"I have no idea, but it's scaring the shit out of me," Isabela replied. Reaver whined his agreement from the vicinity of her waist.

Fenris peered over her shoulder, his expression twisted with disgust. "I've seen this before," he muttered. His eyes moved, searching the square.

"What is it?" Isabela asked.

Fenris gestured. "Look there," he said softly. Isabela and Varric looked where the elf had indicated. On a terrace overlooking the market square, a hunched figure swathed in voluminous robes watched the ongoing battle. The person was too far away to determine race or gender, but the staff clenched in its fist and the tendrils of bloody red magic emanating from the staff's apex marked them obviously as a mage.

"Blood magic," Fenris said contemptuously. "And _they_-" he indicated the mob attacking the templars "are thralls."

Varric produced a strangled noise that aptly evoked both fear and disgust. Isabela couldn't have agreed more.

"Thralls," the pirate repeated, unable to keep the fear out of her voice. "You mean they're... enslaved? By magic?"

"Yes," Fenris said. "We must be very careful. If the mage sees us, we may be spelled as well."

Isabela felt a chill of terror race up her spine. She did _not_ want to become a blood toy for some crazed mage. But there was no easy way to bypass the market square. It was the beating heart of Hightown, or had been in calmer times. Most major routes through the upper city passed through it one way or another – circling around would take hours. But how could they slip through such bedlam as was occurring now and remain unseen?

"Maybe we should wait a while," Varric whispered uneasily. "Let them do their thing and move on."

"They may just as easily move in _our_ direction after they finish with the templars," Fenris observed. "We should slip around the perimeter of the square to the far stairs while they are occupied." He indicated the route he meant with a series of careful gestures.

"That's right across from the mage," Isabela pointed out. "There's not enough cover along there. He'll notice us for sure. Do you _want_ us to be seen?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Fenris said dryly.

Isabela and Varric both looked at him in horror.

"I will deal with the mage," Fenris clarified, and while Isabela looked relieved, Varric didn't.

"By _yourself_, Broody? Is that a good idea?"

"Shush, Varric," Isabela said slyly. "He's going to do the magic fisting thing."

Fenris rolled his eyes but didn't contradict her. Varric looked somewhat less uneasy.

"Well, that could work, I suppose," the dwarf muttered reluctantly. He leaned around Isabela to look out into the square again. Four templars remained alive, fighting back-to-back with the desperation of certain doom.

"What will happen when you kill the mage?" Varric asked Fenris as he straightened himself.

"The chaos will not abate," Fenris answered evenly. Varric snorted.

"No, I don't imagine it will."

"Good. Ready yourselves, and keep the dog quiet," Fenris said, and Isabela looked at him in surprise. They were going to do this _now_?

"Wait thirty seconds and then go," Fenris continued before she could even open her mouth, and with a flash of lyrium and a whisper of disturbed air he was gone.

"Damn it, Fenris!" Isabela hissed, but the elf was gone. She started counting.

"Do you have any control over this monster?" Varric asked. Reaver immediately barked angrily, though it was a remarkably quiet bark.

Varric backed away with his hands raised defensively. "I meant that in a _good_ way! Honest!"

Reaver stared him down and then relaxed, licking his teeth. Varric continued to edge away slowly.

"Reaver," Isabela whispered. "In twenty-two seconds, go around behind those broken stalls quietly and slowly, and then run up the stairs as fast as you can. Stay out of sight until we catch up, unless we need your help. Good?"

Reaver woofed his assent.

Varric stared, agape. "How did you do that?"

"Lamb bones," Isabela explained.

"What?"

"Give him lamb bones. Go, Varric!"

Reaver set off, human and dwarf following him furtively into the square, slipping behind burning wreckage and drapes of greenery whenever they could. In the center of the open area, the motley band of blood thralls and enslaved spirits was closing in on the last two templars. The size of the mob had been drastically reduced by the knights' efforts, but it seemed apparent that even their martial prowess would soon be overcome by sheer numbers.

Isabela, Varric, and Reaver were about halfway across the square when the blood mage on the far terrace spotted them. He stood up swiftly from his crouch, hood falling down to his shoulders and revealing a human, male by virtue of his voluminous red beard. His eyes were alight with a demonic glow as he raised his staff and pointed it over the heads of the battling templars, right at Isabela. Twin casting wounds on his wrists still dripped blood.

Isabela was frozen in terror, sure that she was about to lose her will and her being to the whim of some possessed lunatic mage. Reaver yanked the top of her boots with his teeth, urging her onwards, and Varric shoved her urgently from behind. Their combined efforts managed to snap Isabela out of her momentary paralysis, but as it turned out, the effort was wasted.

Lyrium flashed behind the blood mage, and he spasmed in silent agony. Fenris's hand emerged from the mage's chest in a gory spray, wispy and insubstantial with the effects of his brands and yet having unmistakably caused the fatal evisceration desired.

"Come on, Rivaini!" Varric mumbled through gritted teeth, eyes on the battle. Isabela caught her breath and kept going, following Reaver.

In the square, one manner of pandemonium was rapidly giving way to another. Most of the shades scattered in a chorus of resonant groans; the rage demons hesitated with comedic stumbling motions and then simply picked up where they'd left off, attacking whatever was nearest. The various thralls seemed to wake up from their hypnotic rages, some blinking in confusion and some crying out in pain. Several began to attack one another.

The lone surviving templar stood in bafflement as the attacking force that had been on the verge of ending his life dissolved into an anarchic melee. He looked around, searching for some reason to explain the change. His eyes fell on the blood mage just as the man's heartless corpse was falling pathetically over the balustrade of the terrace to thud sickeningly in the square below. Fenris was long gone, having slipped away the moment his task was complete.

The templar began to fight his way out of the center of the screaming, groaning, crying maelstrom as Isabela and Varric hurried up the stairs out of the market square on Reaver's heels. Fenris appeared as if from nowhere a moment later, and by unspoken agreement they moved on at once.

"Masterfully done, Broody," Varric complimented breathlessly as soon as they were out of earshot of the market square. "Who ever said violence never solves anything?"

"You got that from me," Isabela said amusedly. "But I have to agree. Thanks, Fenris."

"My pleasure," the elf said nonchalantly. "One less blood mage in the world. But I suspect I have done very little to solve Hightown's problems. Where there was one, there will inevitably be more."

Varric and Isabela had to agree with that. The noise of battle reaching them from all around the city was as constant and discouraging as it had been before.

Isabela sighed. "You know chaos like this is the kind of thing that usually-"

"Only Hawke can fix?" Varric finished, and the pirate nodded gloomily. "We're doing what we can, Rivaini. We'll have to hope the Warden-Commander was able to recruit some mages to help us out."

"And if she hasn't?" Fenris said. "What then?"

Varric shook his head. "One step a time. No sense driving ourselves nuts trying to fix problems that haven't happened yet."

There was that. So onward they went, edging through the streets of Kirkwall, ever closer to the Hawke estate, where they hoped to find safety and perhaps some good news.

Some of the ongoing, ever-present conflict rocking the city was easy to avoid simply because it was difficult to miss and thereby stumble upon. On the way to Hightown Square, for instance, the travelers were easily able to avoid what appeared, bizarrely, to be a lovers' spat between two blood mages that had escalated into sorcerous violence, complete with armies of shades tearing each other apart.

Isabela led a careful detour around a square filled with shambling animate corpses, some of which were attacking each other. Almost all of them were horribly burned, their clothing in tatters and faces charred beyond recognition. A number of other similarly burned but inanimate bodies lay collapsed around the square, paradoxically sprouting feathered arrow-shafts from their heads.

The _whoosh_ and _thunk_ of another arrow piqued Isabela's curiosity as they passed. She searched the square from a safe distance, finally noticing a lone city guardsman with a longbow on the roof of an estate, picking off the zombies one at a time.

The travelers managed to reach the Hawke estate without further incident, though a few close calls had them all on edge by the time they finally arrived. Bodahn was waiting for them in the antechamber, wringing his hands anxiously.

"Is everyone alright?" he asked. "No injuries?"

"We're fine, Bodahn," Isabela said. She shook her head. "No luck finding what we needed, though."

Fenris was scanning the square outside, checking for any sign of danger before closing the door. His eyes were narrow as he pushed the heavy wooden door shut. A magical barrier fell across it like a curtain the moment it was closed.

"Has the Warden-Commander returned yet?" Fenris asked Bodahn as he turned from the door.

Bodahn shook his head worriedly. "No. There's been no word. I fear for her."

"I'm sure she's fine," Varric reassured the older dwarf. "If I know one thing for sure about Eingana Tabris, it's that she can take care of herself."

"I can vouch for that," Isabela confirmed. By her own reasoning, the lithe elf was just like Hawke, except she carved her way through hordes of the enemy with two normal-sized swords instead of one huge one. And she wasn't possessed. At least, Isabela hoped not. "Don't you worry yourself too hard."

Bodahn nodded reluctantly and led them into the common room. "I shall try," he replied with a thin smile. "It is rather more difficult to console myself about Masters Hawke and Anders."

Isabela patted his shoulder comfortingly. "We're right there with you, Bodahn."

"The Ladies Merrill and Wynne are with Knight-Captain Cullen in the far drawing room," Bodahn said, "if you wish to update them."

"Probably a good idea," Varric sighed. "Let's hope Eingana made more progress on the 'recruiting mages' front than we did."

**ασυνέχεια**

In the cool quiet of the drawing room, Wynne sat tightly on the same couch she had that morning, working with a metal-nib pen on one of many large sheets of vellum that covered the wooden table. Her staff still stood next to the couch, its gleaming pane of magic indicating that all was well at the nexus far below. Cullen stood by the hearth with his arms folded and his back utterly straight, watching Wynne neutrally. The resemblance to the scene of that morning was broken only by the addition of Merrill, who sat cross-legged on the other couch. The sheer size of the massive tome open on Merrill's lap made the slender Dalish elf seem even smaller than she was. A gleaming silver bowl sat atop the tome, on which Merrill appeared to be at work enchanting.

The vellum before Wynne was covered by a very large, intricately beautiful sigil the elderly mage was designing. Numerous other completed sigils, the ink still glistening on some of them, were spread across the table, presumably for use in the ritual. One long scroll was covered in writing; some paragraphs were in Thedas common, while others were comprised of ancient Tevinter logograms or dwarven runic script.

All three looked up as Isabela entered, followed by Varric, Fenris, and Reaver. Merrill's face lit up, and Wynne and Cullen looked equally relieved.

"My dears," Wynne said, straightening from her hunched-over position. "I'm so glad to see you alive and unharmed! I'm sure I don't need to tell you how the situation outside has deteriorated."

"Nope," Isabela said dryly as she sat down next to Merrill. "We saw it ourselves." She responded in kind to the elf's warm, wordless hug, feeling a surge of affection. The silver bowl sparkled with bound energy between them, sliding from one page of the open tome to the other.

Reaver toured the room briefly before settling down with a comfortable woof on the carpet at Cullen's feet, resting his head on his paws. Varric found a seat on the couch next to Wynne, and Fenris chose one of his favoured simple wooden stools which appeared to have been brought into the room specifically for his use.

"Gangs were slaughtering each other in Lowtown, probably over stupid things," Isabela elaborated as she disengaged from Merrill. She flashed Cullen a grin and a wink, and he returned a small smile. "The templars were fighting blood mages in Hightown. We saw hardly any city guards."

"Most have retreated to the Keep," Wynne remarked. "It seems the templars are no longer cooperating with Aveline's focus on protecting the populace. The templars have instead chosen to fight the blood mage collective that is running rampant in the streets."

"Blood mages running rampant is not anything unusual in Kirkwall," Fenris commented dourly. "They are just being more obvious about it."

"Sadly true," Cullen said with a grimace. "I am relieved you were able to make it back in one piece, myself."

"Broody here killed a blood mage quite efficiently," Varric commented. "You would be proud of him, I expect, Knight-Captain."

Cullen eyed Fenris with a subtle smile on his face, and the elf nodded gravely.

"I'm glad to hear their numbers have been reduced, even if by only one," Cullen said. "'Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs, the Maker yet notices-'"

"'-the smallest of deeds,' yes," Fenris finished tersely. "It was not what I would call a 'small deed,' but I appreciate the sentiment."

Cullen nodded back to him, and though Fenris was just as surly as he usually was, Isabela swore the hint of a smile quirked his lips for just an instant.

"Did you find any mages?" Merrill asked conversationally. "That wanted to help us, I mean? Eingana's not back yet... we haven't heard anything from her all day."

Varric sighed and shook his head. "They're all in hiding," the dwarf said irritably. He glanced at Cullen. "According to the people we talked to, Meredith's ordered a purge of some sort. Every apostate not actively fighting the templars has gone into hiding. We'd need more time, and a lot less civil war, to find any of them."

"Did you try the alienage?" Merrill asked.

Varric shook his head again. "Locked," he said. "We couldn't get in, and nobody answered my calls."

Merrill looked crestfallen. Wynne frowned, though her expression was more of a resigned lack of surprise than consternation.

"A _purge_, did you say?" asked Cullen, who apparently _was_ surprised. "I know of no such initiative." His brow furrowed. "Come to think of it... I've received no word from the Order at all since I left the city to meet Wynne."

"How would you have?" Varric asked. "Do they even know where you are?"

"I asked Aveline to pass on a message to the Knight-Commander," Cullen mused. "But if the Order is no longer cooperating with the city guard... hmmm."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Wynne asked Varric, "What about the lyrium? Even if Eingana does make contact with the Wardens and her mysterious friends and finds the help we need, we cannot proceed with the ritual if we have nothing with which to part the Veil."

Varric nodded. "That, at least, went as planned. I called in some favours – I managed to arrange delivery right to the estate, via the Undercity."

"The Undercity?" Fenris repeated, eyeing Varric with a raised eyebrow. Evidently, he had not been privy to that particular discussion. "You mean into the cellars?"

"Yes," Varric confirmed.

"Is that wise?"

"The sewers are less choked with demons and gang wars, so there's less chance of attracting unwanted attention," Varric explained. "Lyrium is somewhat valuable, you see."

Fenris gave him a withering look, and Varric smiled charmingly.

"A few of my people are aware of some secret passages and old disused side corridors that should allow them to get the lyrium to the border of the Hawke cellars safely. They'll be a while yet... later on I'll go down to wait for them. And if someone else wants to come with me, well – that would be helpful. Not that my people will be demanding payment in flesh or anything, but you know, in case of undead and such."

"A wise precaution," Wynne agreed, and Fenris nodded.

"We'll meet them just past Blondie's lab. We'll need to open the door to the deep vault from the inside to let my guys through," Varric went on. "And we'll probably need their help carrying it all to where it's supposed to go – which is where, by the way?"

Wynne set down the vellum she'd been working on. "I've been thinking about that. A large room would serve best. Perhaps one the size of the main dining hall I saw near the kitchen? But empty. Are there any such rooms in the estate?" She looked around.

Varric shrugged. "I don't know. This is Hawke's house, not mine." His eyebrows shot up as an idea seemed to strike him. "I hope he doesn't mind that we've been eating his food."

Reaver made a plaintive whining noise, but offered no other opinion. Isabela chucked.

"He won't mind," the pirate said. "We're saving him from a demon. Or whatever that thing is. To answer your question, Wynne, I've explored this place fairly thoroughly... sometimes I think more thoroughly than Hawke has himself-" she pointedly ignored the suspicious frowns Cullen and Wynne were giving her, as well as the gleam of amusement in Varric's eye "-but only the main floors. There are some empty bedrooms upstairs in the far corners of the place, but they're fairly small."

Isabela didn't want to suggest the cellars, in part because she didn't know if there was a suitable room down there, but mostly because the thought of going back to those dark, dusty, cramped tunnels made her heart clench with barely-suppressed panic.

Fenris ruined it by saying "I believe there is an empty room large enough for the purpose in the cellars. It is not as far down as the laboratory – I saw a number of empty rooms and corridors as we passed yesterday. One of them must surely be large enough."

"That would be ideal, actually," Wynne said. "If we lock the mansion above us and seal the deep vault from the inside, there is that much less chance of our being disturbed. If the ritual were interrupted, at any point, the results could be catastrophic..."

She went on to explain just how and why the results would be catastrophic, but Isabela was barely listening. The image of Hawke's face was flashing through her mind, snarling at her like a crazed animal, his eyes black empty pits. She remembered him attacking her and Fenris in the laboratory below in excruciatingly vivid detail. Isabela could almost feel the heat of Hawke's breath on her neck, his whispered words crawling into her ear.

_I thought I was a terrible person for treating Anders the way I did... it was _really_ nasty, some of the stuff I did to him. I'll tell you sometime, Isabela. _You'll_ appreciate it._

Isabela felt certain she would _not_ have, but it didn't help at all that she knew why Hawke would say such a thing, and it made her feel curiously, shamefully unclean. It was a feeling unlike anything Isabela had experienced before in her life, and deeply unpleasant. She took a deep breath, trying to push the images back into the depths of her memory where dangerous thoughts were kept, locked away. Unbidden, more words she didn't want to remember surfaced.

_My eyes were opened._

_I love him as I've never loved anyone else. He needed this as much as I did. He understands, and even if he does not, he will._

_I will not suffer your interference._

Maker's balls, what were they _doing_? What chance did they possibly have against that thing? Hawke was lost. He would slaughter them all the minute they entered the Fade, and then what? They'd all be dead, or worse – Tranquil. With their dreaming selves destroyed, there would be nothing left to inhabit their bodies. They would be shells, empty husks, parodies of life. The thought of existing in that state made Isabela feel cold.

But Hawke... not to mention Anders... could they really just be _left_ as they were now? At the mercy of that horrible creature, trapped forever in the ancient nexus far beneath Kirkwall, sleeping until their bodies wasted away or were eroded by magical forces?

Really, Isabela thought guiltily, would that be so terrible? If they all went into the Fade and died, Aveline, Wynne, Cullen, Eingana, Varric, everyone else... these were the people who were holding the city together, preventing it from sliding any further towards inescapable destruction than it already had. If they all died – if _we_ all died, Isabela thought – there would be nobody left who knew about Hawke, who could possibly stop him should he break free of the nexus vault. That would mean the end of Kirkwall, and it would just be the beginning. The _world_ would tremble before him.

Isabela wasn't even aware that she was shuddering, or that her thoughts were visible in any way on her face, until she felt a cool metal hand settle diffidently on her shoulder. Isabela looked up to find Cullen staring down at her in tentative concern, his massive armoured form blocking out the watery light from the high windows.

"Isabela?" the templar said softly. "Are you alright?"

Wynne and Merrill were looking at her, and of course now Varric and Fenris were too. Merrill took her hand and squeezed, and Isabela squeezed back, soothed.

"Fine," she managed to say almost normally, blinking away the tears of terror and despair that were threatening to spill from her eyes. "Just... I don't like the cellars. But I'll be okay. I'll deal. We have to do this."

Did she really believe that? It seemed she did. Maker _damn_ that Michael Hawke, Isabela thought, for making her care about more than just herself.

Cullen gripped her shoulder in a gesture of solidarity, and perhaps something else. Affection? _Crap_. Isabela didn't want to have to deal with that. She was suddenly worried that she had given the templar the wrong idea. That was a whole other ball of unwanted wax. But then Cullen retreated, giving her a hopeful smile when she looked at him, and damn her but Isabela couldn't _not_ smile back.

A bell rang somewhere in the mansion, and everyone looked up. Distant noises of Bodahn moving around reached them, muffled through dozens of intervening rooms and walls.

"What was that?" Fenris asked.

"Someone's at the door, I expect," Varric answered. "Most Hightown estates have a bell or something to ring when someone shows up."

Merrill looked startled. "But how do the people inside know when to ring the bell? If they know someone's coming, why don't they just wait by the door at the right time?"

Cullen's mouth opened slightly, and one eyebrow arched. Isabela stifled her giggles and patted Merrill fondly on the arm as Varric explained, with infinite patience, what he meant. Leave it to the naïve elf to make her feel better with her usual eccentric charm, Isabela thought.

A minute or two later, as an expression of delighted understanding had settled firmly onto Merrill's face, Bodahn appeared at the threshold.

"The Lady Aveline has arrived with a contingent of the city guard," he announced. "She is here to speak with you concerning Master Hawke's situation and proposed solutions thereof."

"Ah, good. Thank you, my dear," Wynne said as Bodahn stepped aside and Aveline entered. Behind her followed Donnic and another guard, a short but wiry woman with sandy blonde hair whom Isabela remembered vaguely from when Hawke had intervened in Aveline's spectacularly tasteless attempt at courting Donnic.

Aveline smiled in response to Wynne's warm greeting, and returned Cullen's nod. Her eyes searched the room, counting and identifying those within as Varric and Fenris exchanged friendly greetings with Donnic and the other guard, Brennan.

"The Warden-Commander has not returned?" Aveline said after she had accounted for everyone in the room.

"She has not, unfortunately," Wynne said with a sigh. She gestured around to the unoccupied space on the couches and various chairs. "We are hoping that will change soon. Won't you sit down?"

Aveline looked tempted, but she shook her head. "We may not be able to stay very long. I will stand. Donnic, Brennan – sit if you like, but don't get too comfortable."

The guards exchanged a wry smirk. Neither one moved. Aveline looked at them fondly for a moment, and then her piercing gaze fell on Varric. Before she could ask the inevitable questions, the dwarf shook his head.

"No dice for either of us," he said, and Aveline pursed her lips. "The lyrium's on the way, but no mages yet. It seems that will be up to the Commander."

Aveline frowned. "And I presume you haven't heard from her since she left."

"Right," Varric said. Aveline chewed her lip thoughtfully.

"Guard-Captain," Wynne spoke up. "Has the situation the city improved at all?"

Aveline shook her head grimly. "No. It's gotten worse, actually. This morning, it seemed like things were quieting down, especially with Hawke... doing as he's doing, where he is," she said carefully. Apparently, Donnic and Brennan were unaware of the true nature of Hawke's situation. "That lasted for perhaps an hour after I left you this morning. The city is collapsing around our heads. Not literally, but it might as well be. I was rather hoping for better news here... I honestly don't know how much longer we can hold out."

Behind her, Donnic made a truncated motion as if to offer her comfort, but stopped when Brennan shook her head slightly, her gauntleted hand on his wrist. Donnic's face was pinched with worry and annoyance, but he desisted. Aveline never noticed anything; Isabela and Varric, however, exchanged a glance.

"Have you any news from the Order, Guard-Captain?" Cullen asked with a steady calm that was rather betrayed by the anxiety in his eyes. "Wynne believes that the templars are no longer cooperating with your command. I hope my lieutenants have not caused you any trouble."

Aveline stared at him in surprise for a moment, and then opened her mouth to speak. No words came out. She closed her mouth and rubbed her chin, frowning as if wondering what to say.

"You mean you don't know?" Aveline asked at last.

Cullen looked alarmed. "It seems I do not. What do you mean? What is going on?"

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Cullen, but the Order is fracturing from within," Aveline said. Wynne's eyes widened, and Fenris sat up straighter, suddenly tense. Cullen stared, his whole body tense, waiting for more.

"The Knight-Commander sent orders that all templars were to form raiding parties under the direction of Sers Thrask and Karras, and cleanse Hightown of the blood mage collective that plagues it," Aveline explained. "Karras obeyed her. Thrask did not."

Cullen's face fell and he rubbed his forehead. He suddenly looked grossly, bitterly tired. Isabela felt an unexpected flash of concern, startling herself. Cullen, however, merely shifted his weight to his other foot and gestured for Aveline to continue.

"My guards have been fighting the blood mages as well," Aveline informed them, "with help from Thrask and a substantial number of templars who chose to follow him rather than Karras and Meredith. We have had to retreat throughout the day... we were having no success in rooting them out and losing far too many men. Thrask and I agreed that our efforts would be better spent defending the Keep and everyone within it."

Aveline folded her arms and said with exasperation, "However, my scouts have informed me that the templar loyalists continue to attack the blood mages, even going so far as to provoke them out of their lairs with taunts and thrown rocks. The most recent report I've received indicates that they are dying or succumbing to enthrallment in large numbers, and making only marginally more progress than we did."

Aveline paused. Still Cullen said nothing; the Knight-Captain had his forehead resting against armoured fingers, his eyes closed and apparently praying for patience. In some far-off reach of the mansion, the bell signaling visitors at the front door rang a second time, but nobody noticed.

"Several more have since changed their minds and joined us in the Keep. They tell me that other templars in Lowtown are conducting a search for apostates, whom Meredith believes are responsible for the demon invasion," Aveline finished.

The room was silent. Everyone was waiting for Cullen's reaction, whether or not they were looking at him. Finally he lowered his hand and said with clear anger, "Maker protect us all from that woman's insanity."

Wynne looked shocked; Aveline's lips quirked in a wan smile. Fenris and Varric both smothered snorts of laughter.

"Given up on poor Meredith, have we?" Isabela suggested teasingly, and Cullen glanced at her with weary frustration writ plain on his face.

"Meredith is mad," the templar said shortly. "I have suspected it for some time and so has Ser Thrask. So have many, many others. Of course she _should_ be concerned with the demons, and with a blood mage collective rampaging through Hightown, but this is _not_ the way to deal with it. The Order can be of no help to anyone if they are all dead or enthralled."

"Ser Thrask said something similar when he received Meredith's missive," Aveline told him. "He and Karras had a shouting match in the barracks."

The Guard-Captain's smile had withered somewhat, but only somewhat. Isabela tried not to giggle inappropriately.

Cullen let out a long, heavy sigh and shook his head. "Well... I suppose I will have to pick a side eventually. I have received no contact whatsoever from the Order since I left Kirkwall yesterday morning, and so I will continue to perform my duty as was last assigned to me. My priority is to advise and protect Enchanter Wynne while she completes her business and provide her with any necessary aid that falls within my power. That is what I will do."

"I am very glad to hear that, Cullen," said an icy voice from the doorway, and everyone looked over in surprise. "I must confess to feeling some trepidation over even _your_ continued loyalty."

Donnic and Brennan stepped to either side of the threshold as Aveline turned around, finding herself face-to-face with Knight-Commander Meredith herself. For a tense, drawn-out moment, the drawing room was silent.

**Ω**


	25. Strangers

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Strangers"**

Bodahn cleared his throat uncomfortably from somewhere behind Meredith and the two imposing male templars with her. Isabela hadn't even noticed the dwarf leave the room.

"The Knight-Commander of the Templar Order, Meredith Stannard, and her honour guard," Bodahn announced with a formality that was somewhat ruined by the fact that nobody could see him with the hulking, armoured humans in the way. Isabela was still fighting not to break into snorting, stifled laughter, now for a completely different reason. The expression on Meredith's face helped her get a handle on herself considerably.

"Knight-Commander," Aveline said in a clear tone of surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Meredith eyed Aveline with her lip curled in a slight sneer. "Looking for my Knight-Captain," she answered. Her gaze swept over to Cullen. "Where have you been, boy?"

Cullen bristled at the disrespectful term of address, but his voice was measured and calm as he replied. "I have been following your orders, Commander. I accompanied the Enchanter Wynne from beyond the city limits yesterday as instructed, and I am now watching over her as she conducts her business."

He gestured towards Wynne, who had stood up from the couch. Meredith turned to her with eyes narrowed as the elderly mage nodded respectfully.

"Knight-Commander Meredith," she said. "I bring greetings from the College of Magi and offer my respects on their behalf."

Her tone was superficially deferential, but those who had been in the room with Wynne already noticed a slight chill in her voice that had not been present before Meredith's arrival. Isabela was somewhat taken aback; before now she would have had a hard time picturing the gentle mage speaking rudely or harshly to anyone. Sternly, yes, but never so... _coldly_.

"Senior Enchanter Wynne," Meredith replied with stilted, grudging respect. "How fare our friends in Cumberland?"

"Well, thank you."

"I sent more than one missive requesting details of your business here in Kirkwall," Meredith said. "I never received an answer."

"Your missives must have arrived in Cumberland after my departure," Wynne said in a clipped voice. "I imagine the Council of Enchanters would have deemed my explanation to the templar sent to escort me a sufficient response."

The offense simmering beneath her voice was uncomfortably obvious. It was as if the temperature in the drawing room had suddenly dropped by several degrees. Even Reaver could feel the rising tension; he had raised his head from his paws and was staring at Meredith.

"It was not," Meredith said tartly, "and the College will be hearing from me to that effect." She turned to Cullen without giving Wynne a chance to respond. "Well?"

"You are here at the Champion's estate, Commander," Cullen said levelly. "Surely you must know that Enchanter Wynne has come at Master Hawke's request."

That wasn't quite true – it had actually been Anders who had originally written to Wynne, but Isabela could see the logic behind Cullen's elision of that minor detail. Anders was an apostate, and mentioning him to Meredith could cause nothing but trouble.

Meredith frowned. "I came because Knight-Lieutenant Karras indicated I might find _you_ here, Cullen. I had all but given up on accounting for the enchanter."

Wynne's face curdled briefly as she resumed her seat on the couch, but Meredith did not even look in her direction. She went on, "For what purpose did the Champion call Enchanter Wynne here?"

Cullen's expression was tightly controlled, but Isabela could almost see the frantic thoughts going on behind his eyes. They had all laboured to keep this from Meredith for as long as possible. Clearly the time had arrived when they could delay her finding out no longer. Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their collective breath, waiting for Cullen to speak.

Isabela thought it was unlikely that the Knight-Captain would betray them or Hawke – especially given the sentiment he had expressed concerning Meredith's mental state just prior to her arrival. Even so, she couldn't help the beginnings of a niggling doubt that gnawed the edge of her mind. Cullen appeared to be chewing his tongue, considering his answer as the silence stretched on past reasonable conversational delay. Isabela could read her same fear lurking in Varric's face, and in Aveline's. Fenris's expression was flat and impassive.

Merrill, meanwhile, was staring determinedly into the silver bowl atop the tome in her lap, avoiding looking at Meredith. Isabela realized the elf's hand was shaking slightly in fear, and she folded it in her own reassuringly. Merrill gave her a weak, grateful smile.

Cullen's answer, when it finally came, was smooth and unconcerned. "Hawke required aid from the College of Magi to combat a powerful demon that has apparently been lurking somewhere in the city for some time. There is reason to believe it is behind the recent invasion, as well."

Isabela sensed rather than heard the simultaneous breath of relief let out by her, Merrill, Varric, Aveline, and Wynne. Technically, the templar's statement was not even a lie. There was, of course, the tacit omission of the fact that the wyrd (which was close enough to a demon that the distinction hardly mattered) lurked _inside_ Hawke, who was himself "somewhere in the city."

_Nice save, Cullen,_ Isabela thought. _Just need to work on getting rid of that suspicious hesitation_. For Meredith was scowling at her Knight-Captain, clearly disturbed by how long it had taken him to answer.

"A powerful demon, also conveniently responsible for the invasion," she stated, scathing and skeptical. "That is highly implausible. If it is so, why did the Champion not alert me, first? I command the Kirkwall chapter of the Templar Order. I am _here_, in the city. What possible reason could he have for approaching Cumberland for aid rather than the Gallows?"

Cullen made a gesture of bland ignorance. "I do not know, Knight-Commander. Perhaps Master Hawke was aware that the Order in Kirkwall has its hands full dealing with the mages here, and he wished to see to the matter of the demon himself. He certainly cannot be faulted for believing himself and his companions capable."

Meredith couldn't argue with that. Her eyes shifted around the room carefully, taking in everyone else who was there for the first time. She clearly recognized Varric and Fenris as having fought beside Hawke during the qunari conflict, and gave them curt nods which both returned in kind. Her gaze hardened somewhat on Isabela, no doubt remembering her less-than-heroic role in the incident. Isabela returned the unfriendly scrutiny with interest, throwing out the dirty half-sneer she had perfected over many years' experience in duels, both verbal and literal, with various raider captains of the eastern seas.

The Knight-Commander's crystalline blue eyes lingered belligerently on Merrill. The slender elf had largely stayed out of the fighting during the Arishok's attack on Kirkwall, at Hawke's insistence. He had claimed it was because he didn't want to aggravate the people of the Qun any further by flaunting his affiliation with uncollared mages, but Varric had later confided in Isabela his suspicion that Hawke's real reason had been concern. Anders, of course, could defend himself easily, especially with Justice's help. Merrill was a powerful mage herself, but the fact remained that any kossith who got close enough to her could have easily picked her up and broken her in half.

Meredith would not have recognized the Dalish mage from the brief war with the Arishok and his qunari, but Merrill's slight frame made it rather obvious that she was not accustomed to physical combat. Given that the companions of the Champion were all deadly or indomitable warriors, agile duelists, sturdy crossbowmen or powerful mages, there could be little doubt in Meredith's mind why Merrill was present in the drawing room. Her gaze was mistrustful, and while Merrill stared back with brave determination, Isabela could almost feel the tension of her fear, coiling her muscles like a spring under pressure. The pirate squeezed Merrill's hand in a silent gesture of solidarity, and Merrill squeezed back gratefully. Finally, Meredith looked away, her eyes traveling to Aveline, Donnic, and Brennan, and Merrill let out a tiny breath of relief.

"That is understandable," Meredith finally commented, "though still a foolish risk on the Champion's part."

That made no sense, Isabela thought. Well, she supposed it would to Meredith.

"In that case, what is the nature of this supposed demon?" Meredith continued. "Why has it not made its presence felt? I've received no indication that anyone in Kirkwall has even seen such a demon, let alone detected its presence in any way."

Meredith was now regarding Wynne with hostile suspicion. Isabela felt an unexpected surge of defensive resentment on the elderly mage's behalf. She had to consciously remind herself that Meredith hadn't seen what they had, nor did she know what they did – and she couldn't be allowed to. If the Knight-Commander discovered that it was Hawke himself who was possessed by the creature, there was no telling how she would react. Isabela wouldn't have put it past her to call down an Exalted March on Kirkwall.

"Excellent questions, all," Wynne said calmly. "I can answer one of them. The demon is a very old, very rare type of spirit called a wyrd. It is comprised of disassociated and unfocused streams of thought that have coalesced over centuries into a malevolent intelligence of incalculable power. I believe its primary desire is to possess a mortal host so as to gain the ability to exert its influence over our world. The threat it poses to Kirkwall and to all of Thedas cannot be understated."

"A wyrd," Meredith said thoughtfully. "Yes, I know of them... if what you say is true, and a wyrd _is_ behind the invasion, it would explain much." Her voice became brittle. "As yet, however, you have said nothing to convince me of this entity's existence. How do you _know_? For instance, why have my templars not realized its presence?"

"I do not know," Wynne said with blithe unconcern. "Surely you and the mages of the Circle here in Kirkwall have conducted an investigation of your own? I've heard of First Enchanter Orsino... he is spoken of well at the College. Has he uncovered nothing pertaining to the invasion's origin or purpose?"

Meredith was fuming, it seemed, as much from Wynne's nonchalance as from the content of her words. Her face was twisted with suppressed rage as she said heatedly, "Orsino is untrustworthy. He routinely attempts to conceal from me the abuses of the mages under his care. He prefers, instead, to blame the _templars_ for every problem that arises. Most frustrating is that he seems never to realize the magnitude of danger his blindness has caused in the past, and is causing now. "

Meredith let out a bark of bitter, sarcastic laughter. "The First Enchanter insists that blood mages are driven to their foul practice because the Order leaves them no other option, that mages turn to demons as a means of striking back against their so-called 'oppressors'... and so on. He cannot be relied upon to offer everything he knows about _any_ given situation, not even one as serious as this ongoing crisis, which threatens the entire city and perhaps much more."

Wynne sat with her hands folded throughout Meredith's invective, waiting for her to finish with a thin veneer of politeness. When she at last had a chance to speak, Wynne said evenly, "Do you mean to tell me that you have not had the Circle investigate this sudden catastrophic influx of demonic activity because you do not trust them to accurately determine the-"

"Of course I have," Meredith interrupted angrily. "Though it was hardly necessary! Orsino spouted some ridiculous excuse as he always does, this time about a 'power stirring in Kirkwall unlike anything he had seen before,' but I know better. You must be aware of the blood mage collective that is terrorizing the streets of Hightown even as we speak. There is no telling how many apostates continue to run amok in this city, despite my best efforts and those of my templars. No, it is far more likely that this invasion is simply the latest foolish attempt to destroy _us_ by idiot mages, too addled by their curse to think rationally and too arrogant to submit to the divine will of the Chantry. It is _we_, the templars of Kirkwall, whom they stubbornly continue to insist are the root of their problems, yet it is _they_ who remain too weak to resist the whisperings of demons in their minds-"

"That is preposterous," Wynne said, and while she remained calm in the face of Meredith's escalating temper, her tone was frigid and dripping with contempt. Everyone else in the room – Aveline, Donnic, Brennan, Varric, Fenris, Merrill, Isabela, Cullen, Meredith's templars, even Reaver – stared at her in shock. None of them could have imagined anyone speaking to Meredith in such a manner, let alone cutting her off so sharply. Even despite her anxiety about how the volatile Knight-Commander might react, Isabela couldn't help silently rejoicing that someone had the guts to stand up to her. She felt a warming rush of affection for the elderly mage.

Meredith, on the other hand, was livid. "Preposterous?" she repeated incredulously. "As preposterous as this cock-and-bull story you've invented about a wyrd, and the Champion summoning you to help him deal with it? I think not, Senior Enchanter. Now you will tell me, truly and with no omission of detail, _why_ you are here, and _what_ you are doing!"

Okay, Isabela thought. This was getting out of control. Surely Meredith wasn't accusing _Wynne_ of causing the invasion? That was just... the word _preposterous _had come up, and Isabela couldn't think of a better descriptor at the moment. Ludicrous? Absurd? Meredith couldn't be serious. Could she?

"Knight-Commander," Aveline spoke up, having apparently decided it was time for her to step in. "Just what are you suggesting? That Senior Enchanter Wynne summoned the demons which have been plaguing Kirkwall? Listen to yourself."

"Be silent, Guard-Captain," Meredith snarled. "You have created enough problems for yourself by siding with the renegades who have deserted my ranks. Do not compound them further by inserting yourself into matters you do not understand."

Donnic's eyes widened. He and Brennan inched away from Aveline. Isabela felt a grin spreading over her face. Meredith had _no_ idea of the tiger she'd just poked.

Aveline laughed derisively. "Do not understand? You foolish woman, I understand much more than you do. I have seen the beast myself. The wyrd is real, and you ignore that reality at your own peril. If you continue to throw your men uselessly against entrenched blood mages while this creature remains an active threat, you will endanger much more than just the city of Kirkwall."

That was a bit much, Isabela thought worriedly. The idea was to keep Meredith and her bloodthirsty templars _away_ from Hawke, so they wouldn't cut his head off before he could be saved. Aveline was right, of course, but perhaps this wasn't the best way to go about getting Meredith off their backs.

Isabela made urgent eyebrow-movements in Aveline's direction, trying to communicate with her eyes what she meant. Aveline didn't appear to notice, but she did glance at Varric, who was doing much the same thing. The Guard-Captain pursed her lips and gave the slightest of nods. She knew what she was doing. Or so Isabela dearly hoped.

Meredith, meanwhile, was speechless with rage. She opened and closed her mouth repeatedly, failing to speak each time. Finally, after one of her templars placed a calming hand on her shoulder, Meredith took several deep breaths. In control of herself once more, she said in a tone of forced coolness, "Very well, Guard-Captain. If you are so certain that this wyrd is a genuine danger, I will take you at your word. But once this storm has passed," she added in a softer, dangerous voice, "you and I are going to have a discussion about the role the City Guard will play in the future defense of Kirkwall."

"Count on it," Aveline responded smartly, and Isabela almost wished she would get to see that conversation.

Meredith's gaze swept around the room once more. "I gather the Champion's companions are here for the same reason Enchanter Wynne has come from Cumberland? That is, to combat the wyrd. Yes... the elves, the raider, the dwarf... and you yourself, Guard-Captain..."

Meredith made a thoughtful noise. "It seems all the Champion's loyal helpers are here, ready to assist. All, that is, but one."

The tension in the room cranked right back up. Isabela did _not_ like where this was going, at all.

"And of course, there is the curious absence of Master Hawke himself," Meredith finished with deadly calm. "I wonder if anyone in this room can tell me where the Champion and his apostate lover are now?"

Varric's eyebrows shot up, and Isabela felt a surge of worried confusion. Meredith knew about Anders, and his relationship with Hawke? How could that have come about? Who knew, Isabela wondered, about Anders... that might also have told Meredith of his involvement with Hawke?

Inevitably, Isabela's eyes went to Cullen.

He looked away, and that was all she needed to see.

Varric, Fenris, Aveline, Donnic, Merrill, and Wynne were all staring at Cullen as well. Isabela exhaled slowly and gazed down at her hands without really seeing them, trying her hardest not to take the avenues of reasoning her mind was now taking. She wondered if this was how Hawke had felt when he had read the note she'd left, after her flight with the Tome of Koslun.

"Cullen?" Meredith asked sharply, misunderstanding their looks. "The others all seem to believe _you_ can answer that question. Well?"

Cullen cleared his throat and had the grace to look ashamed of himself.

"The Champion is engaged in battle with the wyrd, Commander. He is fighting to protect the city as we speak."

"And the apostate?" Meredith demanded. "Anders, I believe you said his name was?"

Cullen winced. Varric and Merrill were glaring at him. Aveline looked angry.

"With the Champion, Commander," Cullen mumbled.

Isabela was trying to smother her own anger with the templar, but it was proving difficult. She might have gotten past him telling Meredith about Anders being a mage; it was his job, after all. And Anders had never actually been apprehended by the templars – whether due to his own evasiveness or through Hawke's protection.

Less forgivable was the fact that Cullen had apparently informed Meredith of just how close Hawke and Anders were. Isabela didn't know how the Knight-Captain had found out; it wasn't as if Hawke and Anders made a secret of their relationship. What she did know for a fact was that Hawke had gone out of his way to keep Meredith from finding out. It was none of her business, for one thing, and for another there were all kinds of ways the templars could use it against one or both of them. Cullen wasn't stupid – he must have realized as much.

And now, Isabela thought with a clench of fear, Cullen knew that Anders was possessed, too. If, by some miracle, they still managed to save Hawke and Anders from the wyrd, what then? If Cullen spoke up about what he knew, there was nothing that would stop Meredith from going after Anders. Not Hawke's status, not all the gold in Thedas.

The strangest thing was how much this seemed to hurt Isabela, personally. She couldn't understand at all why she felt this way. It was not _her_ trust that Cullen had betrayed. To call it a betrayal at all was even a bit much; Hawke had never specifically asked him to keep quiet about Anders. Rather, Cullen's apparent lack of interest in trying to apprehend the mage had indicated he was at least friendly towards the two of them. So why did Isabela _herself_ feel like the templar had let her down? The notion was at once unexpected, unwelcome and confusing, and it only made her feel worse.

A thought occurred to her, a possible explanation: if she had pursued Cullen earlier and enticed him to her bed, what secrets of her own might she have shared in a vulnerable moment of post-coital bliss? What sensitive information might he then betray in the interests of Kirkwall's security? How far did Cullen's duty to the Templar Order go?

This was insane. She was thinking insane things. Cullen was not her boyfriend. She didn't _want_ him to be her boyfriend. Didn't she? No, of course not. She wanted to have sex with him and that was all, and she wasn't even sure about that anymore. Well, yes she was. Even now the light of the late afternoon sun on his hard, strong jaw was making her tingly. But... but... he was an asshole who told his superiors dangerous things that might end up hurting people she cared about? Really? It just didn't seem like Cullen. Insane thoughts. _Maker damn it!_

Apparently unsatisfied with Cullen's brief answer, Meredith had asked another brusquely-worded question while Isabela was lost in introspective melancholy. She forced herself to resume paying attention; Meredith seemed to be demanding a more specific answer as to Hawke's location.

"Knight-Commander, surely there are other more pressing matters that demand your attention," Cullen said placatingly. "Enchanter Wynne has traveled all the way from Cumberland specifically to deal with this problem. We have the situation well in hand."

Reaver had stood up at the templar's feet and was staring at Meredith with what rapidly mounting hostility. Meredith didn't appear to notice.

"Cullen, my patience is wearing thin," Meredith hissed. "I ask you for the final time: _where is the Champion?_"

Reaver stepped forward and barked aggressively, startling not only Meredith but the templars behind her. The Knight-Commander peered disdainfully down at the Mabari hound, and Isabela felt a flash of anger on Hawke's behalf as well as her own. _You touch that dog, and you die, bitch_.

Meredith's lips parted slightly as she recognized Reaver. The dog was snarling at her, but Meredith hardly seemed to notice.

"The Champion's faithful hound," she whispered. "Yes... I remember when the Champion flew into a rage after that heathen qunari slammed his dog against the wall of the Keep. And now you say he is off battling this mysterious but apparently quite dangerous wyrd, with only a volatile, lovesick apostate to aid him? Not even his loyal beast at his side?" Meredith's lip was curling into a suspicious sneer.

_Shit,_ Isabela thought.

"Something else is going on here," Meredith said, almost to herself. Her eyes flew to Wynne, narrowing thoughtfully. She opened her mouth to speak, but someone else beat her to it.

"Oh... is there a party?" a familiar female voice piped up in the hallway behind Meredith's templars. "I'm sorry we're late. Pardon me."

Gloved hands slid between the nearly-touching vambraces of the two templar honour guards, and Eingana Tabris shoved the armoured men apart with startling force. She entered the drawing room between the two stumbling, outraged templars, ignoring their protests with detached complacency, and brushed past Meredith without looking at her. She returned Merrill's joyous smile and settled down on the couch between Varric and Wynne.

The chorus of relieved greetings and snorts of amusement that had ensued at the Warden-Commander's surprise appearance rapidly died down, however, when it became apparent that she had not returned to the Hawke estate alone.

Following Eingana into the room was a willowy elven woman, her face marked with intricate Dalish _vallaslin_ and her dark blonde hair pulled into a tight braid behind her head. She wore a simple form-fitting traveling robe that appeared to have been stitched together from animal skins, unadorned but for the faint imprint of a Grey Warden griffon on one shoulder. She carried a beautifully carved wooden staff and walked with a lithe grace, shooting a distasteful glance around the room as she came to a halt behind the couch on which Eingana now sat. The woman's eyes flicked from one person to the next, taking them all in with the practice of deeply-entrenched wariness. Her regard lingered perhaps a moment longer on Fenris than it had on the others, and longer still on Merrill.

"_Andaran atish'an_, sister," Merrill said warmly. The woman's face broke briefly into a true smile, and she nodded to her fellow Dalish elf.

"_Aneth ara_," the woman replied.

A few steps behind the elf, a tall, dark-skinned human entered the room, lean and wolfish in his movements. His hair was trimmed down to a black fuzz that covered the top of his head, revealing that the intricate tattoo on his forehead extended up across his scalp. His ears, lower lip, and left eyebrow were pierced with simple silver rings. It was his eyes, however, that were most striking: they were coloured a peculiar, brilliant gold. He also carried a staff, carved in a twisting double dragon design like that once favoured by the Imperial magisters of yore. Completing the image were his Tevinter mage robes, dusty and timeworn, with a stylized red griffon on the right shoulder.

The man flashed a contemptuous sneer at the templar still recovering his dignity to the left of the doorway and sauntered over to stand beside the elf. He released his staff, allowing it to stand upright unsupported beside him, and stood with his arms folded. His angular jaw worked silently as he aimed a critical gaze around the room, much like the elf had, but hovering longer on each face. When his piercing focus landed on Isabela, she felt uncomfortably as if she were illuminated in a dark room, on display for innumerable shadowy entities all around her. The pirate could almost feel the stranger's eyes creeping down her body, evaluating her figure, sizing her up.

It was rather startling and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of such intense scrutiny for once. Isabela certainly hoped she didn't make people as uncomfortable as this mage was making her when she smiled and winked at them. She gave him a neutral frown, but his only response was to curve his lips into a mocking smirk that carried a feral edge. The look of predatory hunger in his eyes reminded Isabela strongly of Hawke.

Wynne, meanwhile, was hugging Eingana, expressing her relief at seeing her old friend alive and well. Varric, Fenris, and Merrill voiced their sentiments as well, as did Cullen; Eingana seemed confused when none of the others looked at the templar except Varric, who shot him an aggravated look. All the while, Meredith was staring in hostile bewilderment, her gaze snapping between whoever was speaking. Her glower intensified when Cullen greeted Eingana by name.

"_I_ never doubted you'd be back," Isabela said archly to Eingana.

The Warden-Commander grinned and rolled her eyes. "Of course not. You know it takes more than a rampaging blood mage collective to slow _me_ down."

"Though I wasn't sure how many friends you would bring," Isabela commented. She offered a friendly smile to the silent elven woman, who hesitated before smiling back, if somewhat stiltedly.

"Oh – yes," Eingana said abruptly. "Maker damn my manners, or lack thereof. This is Velanna, everybody." She indicated the elf, who nodded tersely. "And Gage." Eingana gestured towards the leering human, and he winked back at her lasciviously. They could hardly be anyone but Grey Wardens under Eingana's command who had agreed to help with the ritual, but curiously, Eingana left that pertinent fact unstated.

Instead, she continued with her introductions. "Velanna, Gage, this is Wynne – Merrill – Isabela – Knight-Captain Cullen – and that's Reaver down there-"

Reaver woofed.

"I have lamb bones for you," Eingana added, and Reaver leapt to his feet, stubby tail wagging, barking enthusiastically. "Later. _Later_! Relax." Reaver did so, reluctantly. "That's Varric – Fenris – Guard-Captain Aveline – and... hello. Donnic, right?"

Donnic nodded. He seemed to be trying to stifle a smile at Meredith's obvious escalating fury at being ignored.

"Donnic," Eingana continued, "and... I'm sorry, I don't know you either."

"Brennan," the guardswoman said cheerfully. "Nice to meet you all."

"The pleasure is all mine," Gage said in a low, silky voice, staring at Brennan in a way that made her bright, friendly smile wither in seconds. Isabela suppressed a shudder at that voice. Smooth, filled with intimate promises, and dangerously seductive.

"Get control of yourself," Velanna said to him acidly, and Gage looked at her with a simpering smile. She made a face back at him.

"Commander, we are not here for a social visit," Velanna added.

"That's right, we're not," said Eingana, suddenly businesslike. "However, before we can move on to the pressing matter at hand, there are some... _visitors_ here who do not belong." She looked pointedly at Meredith and the templars behind her.

The expression on Meredith's face was frightening. Isabela was impressed with the way Eingana stared back, coolly unintimidated.

"Mages," Meredith growled eventually, having taken some time to recover her ability to speak. "What is the meaning of this?"

Eingana sighed theatrically. "Oh, Meredith... Meredith. I've heard so much about you. You're just like I imagined. Yes... they're mages. They won't hurt you unless you provoke them."

Gage raised his hand. "I might."

"Shut up, Gage."

"I'm a blood mage, too," he volunteered, slyly.

Immediately, the templars' hands were on their weapons, half-drawn, and Meredith took a step forward as if unable to help herself. Cullen lowered his face into his hand with a longsuffering groan.

_Why am I not surprised?_ Isabela thought. She had already decided to tread carefully around the lanky mage. Now she had even more reason to do so, and she resolved never to let her guard down in his presence.

"Gage, seriously," Eingana said exasperatedly. "Rein it in, would you?"

Gage spread his arms grandly. "I'm just being honest, Commander."

"You could stand to be somewhat less honest in the presence of the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall," Velanna pointed out irritably.

"Yes, that." Eingana shook her head. "Meredith," she continued forcefully, "please call off your men before I hurt them. You can rest assured I keep Gage on a short leash. He won't be a problem."

Gage snickered.

"For you, at least," Eingana amended, throwing Gage a sharp look.

"A _problem_?" Meredith sputtered. "What... what is this? Who do you think you are? Who are you that you think you may speak to me so, _elf_?"

Velanna's expression of neutral disinterest at once became an angry glare, but Eingana's gaze hardened only slightly.

"I am Eingana Tabris," she answered mildly. "Commander of the Grey out of Vigil's Keep in Ferelden, and current acting Commander of the same in Kirkwall." She paused, and then added blandly, "Some people call me the Hero of Ferelden."

Varric hastily turned his snort of laughter into a cough. Donnic, Brennan, Fenris, and Isabela were all having similar trouble hiding their amusement. Aveline was the most successful; she wore only a slight smile, and her face was otherwise perfectly composed.

Isabela was struck by how masterfully the Warden-Commander had altered the atmosphere in the room by her mere presence. Immediately prior to her arrival, Meredith had been inching dangerously close to the truth of Hawke's situation. Now, confronted by the unflappable elven woman and the blatant apostasy of her companions, Meredith seemed to have forgotten all about the Champion and his current whereabouts, and Eingana had somehow maneuvered her into making a fool of herself.

Still, it could not be a good idea to toy with a woman like Meredith so flagrantly. Isabela dearly hoped that Eingana had some ironclad means of evading or deflecting the wrath of the Order. Even fragmented as it currently was in Kirkwall, the Grey Wardens would hardly want anything like the trouble Meredith could cause them, especially with their plans for an imminent expedition into the Deep Roads.

"A Grey Warden... and one of their commanders, at that," Meredith said slowly. "Strange. Why are you here? What has Kirkwall's situation to do with the Blights?"

"That is my concern, not yours," Eingana said shortly.

"True enough. But... the Hero of _Ferelden_?" Meredith repeated scathingly. "Do you think you can barge in here and interfere with me because you killed an archdemon in another country over half a decade ago? These are the Free Marches, woman. You have no authority here-"

"Oh, but I think you'll find I do," Eingana cut her off, and her voice had finally become so wintry that Meredith stopped talking immediately. At that moment, Isabela could believe they would be safe – at least for now. She didn't even try to stop the victorious grin from spreading across her face.

"If you try to apprehend any of my men, Knight-Commander, I shall take it as a personal insult," Eingana warned. "All Grey Wardens in Kirkwall _and_ the Free Marches have my express permission – and that of the First Warden, I might add – to defend themselves and any nearby Wardens to the fullest extent they deem necessary. There are a considerable number of us in Kirkwall at the moment, and none of us – least of all me – take kindly to obnoxious templars inserting themselves into business that does not concern them."

Wynne seemed worried that Eingana was pushing too hard; she touched the elf's arm gently, but Eingana ignored her.

"I will warn you, _once_, not to try anything," Eingana finished. "I assure you with the utmost seriousness that you will regret it... _if_ you survive," she added.

Meredith was positively apoplectic. Her face had reddened, and Isabela swore she saw a glint of crimson in the Knight-Commander's eyes. It might have been a reflection from the strange crystal visible on the pommel of Meredith's sword, sheathed at her back, but the angle wasn't right for that.

Gage leaned down so that his mouth was next to Eingana's ear. Though he spoke to the elf, his eerie golden eyes were locked on Isabela's.

"Commander, you are _so_ hot right now," the mage murmured. Isabela had to agree, but it was hard to appreciate the Warden-Commander's authority with the blood mage's gaze on hers, almost holding her captive. Slowly, Gage ran his tongue across his upper lip. Disturbed, Isabela finally managed to look away.

"Get a grip, Gage," Eingana muttered back without looking at him. The blood mage straightened with a smirk.

Meredith was breathing heavily, her eyes darting back and forth between Gage and Eingana. Gage stared back at her with wide, mocking eyes.

"I believe I asked you to call off your men, Knight-Commander," Eingana said boredly, examining her fingernails and idly polishing one with her thumb. When Meredith only continued to glare at her, Eingana paused and looked up.

"_Now_," Eingana commanded loudly in a clear, ringing voice that brooked no argument.

Meredith made a frustrated noise and gestured to her templars. Reluctantly, the men returned their half-drawn blades to their sheaths.

"Thank you," Eingana said. "Now, here is what will happen. I imagine you have been briefed already, concerning the wyrd."

"I have," Meredith spat.

"Good. We have the situation here under control. You are not needed, and so you may leave. Take your men with you."

Isabela's eyes were wide. Eingana was brave enough to speak to Meredith as she had been doing – but giving her orders? The pirate exchanged a shocked glance with Varric. The dwarf looked just as surprised, but he was grinning.

Meredith began at once to protest, but Eingana barreled on implacably. "Cullen-" she nodded at the templar "will be remaining here, to assist Enchanter Wynne, the Champion's companions, and myself in preparing a means by which we may eliminate the wyrd, or at least render it harmless. Hawke and a friend of his – Anders, you may know of him – have held off the creature thus far, saving countless lives by the way, but there is no way to know how much more time they can buy us. Now you, Knight-Commander, will not obstruct or interfere with our operation in any way whatsoever. If for any reason you give in to the insanely stupid urge to try, there will be consequences, up to and including answering to the First Warden."

"And what do you suggest I do in the meantime, while you hold my Knight-Captain here and practice Maker-knows-what blood magic to combat a wyrd you refuse to tell me anything about?" Meredith said waspishly.

"You may have noticed the ongoing collapse of social order in Kirkwall," Eingana said thinly. "The city needs its Knight-Commander right now, more than ever. I suggest with the utmost possibly intensity that you _go and do your job_. That being," Eingana clarified, "to protect the people of the city from demons and blood mages. Other blood mages, not this particular one." She pointed to Gage, who winked.

"And as for Cullen – I am not _holding_ him here, against his will. Am I, Cullen?"

Cullen looked startled at being addressed. "Uh – no. No, you are not, Warden-Commander."

Eingana nodded. "That's right. Your help against the wyrd will no doubt be invaluable. Besides, Meredith, were not your instructions to the good Knight-Captain to remain at the side of Enchanter Wynne until her business in Kirkwall is concluded? It is not concluded. After all," she finished with a slight smile, "she may at any time spontaneously erupt into an abomination and proceed to endanger the city. A templar must be on hand at all times to ensure that does not happen, yes?"

Beside her, Wynne pursed her lips, but to Isabela it was obvious that the elderly mage was suppressing laughter. Of course, she and several others in the room knew what Meredith did not – that such a scenario was completely impossible, for Wynne was possessed already.

Meredith huffed. "Very well, _Warden-Commander_," she said, placing a slightly sarcastic stress on the title. "You need say no more. I will go. After this matter is done, however, I expect you and your people to leave my city and not return."

"We will leave Kirkwall when we choose to do so, no sooner or later than that," Eingana said harshly. "And this is not _your_ city, Meredith. You may have browbeaten the nobility here into accepting your authority as acting Viscount, but that situation cannot and _will_ not be allowed to continue for a day longer than necessary."

Meredith was outraged. "Are you _threatening_-"

"I am delivering a warning," Eingana cut her off. "You may or may not be aware that there are a number of groups across Thedas who feel that Kirkwall has been without a Viscount long enough. As a Commander of the Grey, I am not without my own means, however limited they may be in comparison to yours. If the situation is not resolved in a timely manner, it may happen that I will have to step in and exert pressure wherever needed to see it brought to a satisfactory next step."

Meredith stared at Eingana for a long time. Eingana stared back, folding her hands calmly. Meredith glanced around the room one more time. Her furious gaze lingered on Cullen, who managed to give her a superficially respectful nod; on Wynne, who regarded her impassively; and finally on Gage, who wiggled his eyebrows and flashed her a feral grin.

Meredith took a deep breath. By her expression, she might have been tasting something intensely sour. At last, she gave Eingana a jerky nod and said "Maker guide your path." Then she whirled, snapping her fingers imperiously to her templars, and with a breath of air whispering over steel they were gone.

Gage made a motion as if he were about to lurch forward mockingly at the templars' retreating backs, but before he completed his movement Eingana's leather-gloved hand had swung up and smacked him hard in the stomach. Gage let out a short gasp of surprise, but almost at once he grinned and reached down to run a long, dark finger along Eingana's hand. Her fingers twitched in a blur of motion so fast Isabela couldn't tell exactly what she had done, but the end result was Gage's finger locked in her grip and twisted unnaturally. The blood mage let out a strangled grunt of pain, but he was still smirking. Eingana released him leaving Gage panting in bizarrely self-satisfied discomfort, never having even taken her eyes off of Meredith pushing past Bodahn and striding down the hall.

"You _moron_," Eingana said irritably. "You just _had_ to provoke her, didn't you? We'll be lucky if she doesn't contact the Seekers."

"Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it, Commander," Gage said smoothly. Eingana made an exasperated noise and shook her head.

"That was the most amazing thing I have ever witnessed," Varric said, and Eingana smiled at him. "I only wish Blondie could have seen it."

"_Blondie_?" Velanna asked with one eyebrow raised. "I dearly hope that is a nickname."

"He means Anders," Eingana explained.

"Oh... of course. How silly of me," Velanna said dryly. "Will you clarify something for me, Commander?"

"If I can."

"Anders and this Champion we are trying to save are _both_ trapped at the nexus beneath the city, correct? Unconscious and in the Fade?"

"Correct," Eingana said. Apparently she had explained the situation to her Wardens in detail.

"And he was only able to activate the vault in the first place because of Justice."

"Yes."

"Who is trapped in the vault also, by virtue of being one with Anders."

"Yes," Eingana said impatiently. "What are you getting at?"

Velanna looked annoyed. "How is it we are to get them _out_ of the vault, supposing this foolish ritual works as planned and you somehow manage to kill the demon?"

"I can answer that," said Wynne. "Opening the vault will be a relatively simple matter after the ritual. We will need your help to do it, but it is not a complex procedure. It requires no lyrium, only four mages to stand and cast at specific points within the nexus chamber. It will take perhaps two minutes."

Velanna looked satisfied. "Very well."

Eingana nodded.

"My dear – did you make contact with your other 'friends'?" Wynne asked curiously.

Gage laughed softly. "Is that what you called them, Commander?"

Eingana silenced him with a nasty look and turned to Wynne. "I did," she said. "If my message is received promptly, and if there are any nearby – possible, but only moderately probable – and if they choose to help, then they should be here by mid-morning tomorrow."

"That's a lot of _ifs_," Fenris observed.

"Yes, I know," Eingana said with a jaded bite to her voice. "But it's all I have."

"How many mages do we need for the ritual?" Varric wondered.

"That would depend on how many must enter the Fade," Wynne answered. "As many as possible, ideally, to send in all of us in but those casting, for the greatest odds of success. To have a chance of defeating the wyrd... at least five. Six or more would be better."

"And there must be at least one mage among the sleepers," Merrill added. "To part the Veil and allow others to follow into the Beyond."

Wynne nodded. "Indeed. So if, for instance, Merrill and I were both to accompany those pursuing the wyrd, as I hope will be possible... that leaves only Velanna and Gage. We would need a minimum of three more mages to conduct the ritual."

Eingana rubbed her forehead in consternation. "These... _people_ I spoke of have many more mages than that, but I have no idea how many might be within traveling distance of Kirkwall. It could be some time before they can reach us."

Wynne looked worried. "Well... in theory, the nexus vault is stable," she said. "The discharge should loop indefinitely until it is interrupted." She indicated her staff, standing upright on its own beside the couch. The gleaming magic that swirled around its apex was clear and calm, indicating that the vault was still intact. "The problem is that Michael and Anders will _not_ last indefinitely. Their bodies need energy, food. Sleep, even, because the magically-induced coma is not the same as true rest – particularly with their minds trapped in the Fade, subject to whatever horrors the wyrd is inflicting upon them."

"What are you saying?" Varric asked. "How long can we delay the ritual before Hawke and Anders are lost for good?"

Wynne shrugged. "A few days at most. The sooner the better, of course, but the odds of them surviving undisturbed in the vault for longer than a week are... slim."

"Then we must hope that enough of my friends are nearby to help us, and work under that assumption," Eingana said firmly. "We must not lose ourselves in despair at possibilities that have not yet become fact."

The Warden-Commander looked at Varric next to her, and then over at Isabela. "I guess it's too much to hope for that either of you guys found anyone to help us," she said.

Isabela shook her head. "No dice, Eingana. I wish it weren't so."

Varric heaved a concerned exhalation. "Me too, but if wishes were sovereigns, we'd all be rich."

A general murmur of agreement and wistful nods passed around the room.

"I've got all the lyrium we need on the way," Varric said, "so there's that at-"

He was interrupted by the distant clang of the visitor's bell. Varric's mouth still hung open in preparation for his next word, but his eyes flew to the hall and, distantly, the common room.

"_Now_ what?" Cullen muttered angrily. Isabela shot him a glance, agreeing with his sentiment but still feeling slightly uneasy at his betrayal of Hawke and Anders to Meredith. Was _betrayal_ too strong a word? No actual harm had come of his actions, after all.

_Yet_, Isabela thought.

"I will go and see if Bodahn needs any help turning away unwanted visitors," Aveline said grimly. She nodded to Donnic and Brennan, who fell into step behind her as the Guard-Captain left the room. Fenris rose from his stool and went with them.

Gage shivered dramatically as the group left the room. "That elf smells _good,_" he commented lewdly. "What's the story with the lyrium tattoos?" He looked around the room. "Anyone?"

"Ask him when they get back," Varric suggested testily. "Then, ask him what he thinks of blood mages. I dare you."

Gage raised his eyebrows. "Mmm? I'm sensing a story, here."

Varric looked annoyed.

"Don't encourage him, Varric," Isabela said. "The mage can't help us if Fenris punches his heart out."

Gage made a sound that could only be described as a purr. "He's violent, is he?" The mage licked his lips. "Better and better."

"That's enough, Gage," Eingana snapped. The mage fell silent, but he continued to leer at Isabela for some time. The pirate met his gaze with a defiant glare, but she looked away long before he did.

"Pardon me," Merrill spoke up shyly. Isabela glanced over at her, realizing that the elf was addressing Velanna. "You're... what clan are you from? I remember you from the last _Arlathvhen_, but it was quite a while ago. You're a First, aren't you?"

Velanna shifted, not quite meeting Merrill's gaze. "I... _was_," she said quietly. "No longer. I was first to Keeper Ilshae, of clan Eirjaoa."

Merrill nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! You're from Ferelden, as well! I remember, now." She stopped, her face becoming somber as a realization suddenly seemed to strike her. "I suppose you must have had to leave your clan behind to join the Grey Wardens," she added with soft sympathy.

Velanna was scowling, but down at her hands rather than at Merrill. It seemed obvious to Isabela that the elf was highly uncomfortable, but Merrill was as charmingly oblivious as she usually was.

Velanna's unhappy gaze flicked briefly around the room. She clearly would have preferred not to speak more in front of relative strangers, but something about Merrill's bright naïveté seemed to compel her to answer.

"I left my clan before I joined the Wardens," Velanna said. "I had... disagreements, with the Keeper."

Merrill looked shocked. Isabela was slightly startled herself. She hadn't met many Dalish elves, but she'd always assumed Merrill was something of a black sheep. It seemed that was not so. Varric looked surprised as well, but he stayed out of the conversation.

"I understand," Merrill said. When Velanna shot her a disbelieving look, Merrill added quickly, "I mean, I've been in the same situation. I was First to Keeper Marethari, of clan Sabrae." Velanna nodded, frowning. "I am... not, any more," Merrill said with a trace of buried sadness. "I live in the alienage here in Kirkwall."

"Truly?" Velanna asked interestedly, apparently forgetting about the six other people in the room who were listening in silence. "Here, among the shemlen? Do you not... is it not..." she seemed to be struggling to express herself. "Dirty? Noisy? How do they treat you?"

"Badly," Merrill admitted. "The elves here are trodden upon daily by the humans. They are servants at best, beggars and... and other things, at worst. But..."

"But what?" Velanna said darkly. "That sounds no different than what I am used to. From what I have seen of Kirkwall, the elves here at least care enough about their heritage to keep their _vhenadahl_ green and alive."

"Yes," Merrill said earnestly. "They do not turn away from the old ways by choice. They have no choice, but they at least have some things, like the _vhenadahl_, and each other. The alienage is dirty and smelly, and leaky, and... well, but it's a home all the same. It's their home, and mine too, and if you look at it that way you can sometimes see past all the dirt. And there is something else here... in Kirkwall, I mean, that sometimes makes it... more bearable, I suppose. A kind of... life. Activity. Minds... a buzzing noise in the background."

Merrill seemed frustrated, unable to describe what she meant. Isabela couldn't blame her – she had no idea what the elf was talking about.

Velanna was opening her mouth to respond when voices raised in argument reached them from elsewhere in the mansion. One of the voices clearly belonged to Aveline. Everyone turned to peer down the hall, wondering what was going on and who might have been at the door. What was taking Aveline, Donnic, Brennan, and Fenris so long?

Abruptly Eingana was on her feet, one hand gripping the hilt of her enchanted longsword. Isabela blinked at how fast the elf had moved; then she realized that Velanna and Gage both had their staves gripped tightly in hand, and were shooting each other tense, startled glances.

"What?" asked Varric.

Eingana shook her head slowly. "Already?" she whispered. "Impossible."

"My dear?" Wynne asked, standing up as well. "What is the matter?"

Figures became visible at the far end of the hall, striding purposefully towards the drawing room. In the lead was a tall, bulky man wearing a voluminous cloak, his face and body entirely obscured by the garment. Aveline and Fenris were right behind him; the Guard-Captain had her hand on the stranger's upper arm, apparently trying to slow or stop him, but without success. Brennan and Donnic followed on their heels; Donnic had his weapon drawn. Behind the group trotted Bodahn, barely visible through the cluster of taller bodies ahead of him.

"Who is that?" Varric asked curiously. The Grey Wardens seemed nervous, ready to attack. Varric cautiously stood as well, making uncertain motions as if unsure whether to draw and deploy Bianca.

_Already?_ Eingana had said, Isabela thought with a thrill of excitement at meeting the unknown. Was this one of the enigmatic mages Eingana had contacted for aid? But the Warden-Commander seemed to think that her "friends" responding so quickly was impossible. Who, then, was this man, and what could he possibly want?

"Stop," Aveline was saying angrily as the group neared the drawing room. "I said _stop_, stranger. I must speak with you."

"You are not to whom I must be speaking," the stranger replied in a raspy growl of a voice. He spoke with a heavily lisped accent Isabela didn't recognize, which made her wary. She had been to many parts of Thedas, and considered herself fairly knowledgeable about the different manners of speech throughout. Who was this man?

The stranger burst into the drawing room, coming to an abrupt halt when he found himself faced with Eingana, her enchanted blade drawn and held ready. Gage and Velanna had moved to either side of the doorway without Isabela even noticing, and both had magic flickering in their hands.

Isabela exchanged a worried glance with Varric. What in the Void was going on? Instinctively, she reached for her knives, and Varric unstrapped Bianca from his back.

"Warden-Commander," the man said gratingly. "I am having a message for you."

Eingana's eyes widened and, to Isabela's surprise, she broke into a smile. Velanna and Gage looked stunned; their prepared spells fizzled away.

"_Not_ a threat, then?" Varric said weakly, having seen the same thing. He hadn't yet deployed Bianca, but kept his hand on her levers just in case.

Isabela glanced behind her. Cullen was also on edge, his sword unsheathed and shield in hand. He shot her a questioning look, but Isabela shrugged and shook her head.

"The Unspoken," Eingana said in a soft voice that was almost a whisper. "What... are you _doing_ here?"

"I am bringing to you a message from Him," the stranger growled. Isabela still couldn't see his face through the shadows of his hood, but his voice was scratchy and almost bestial. The lisping accent might have been comical if Isabela weren't so uncertain about what was going on. She wondered who, or _what_, this "Him"was. The pirate could almost hear the capitalized letter.

The stranger twisted around as if examining the others in the room. "Who are these?" he asked.

"Friends," Eingana replied. She hesitated, and then grunted tiredly, rubbing her forehead with the hand not holding a sword. "You may speak freely in front of them, Unspoken. If your message concerns what I hope it does, there will be no hiding anyways."

"You are certain?" the stranger hissed.

"Commander," Gage said edgily. "Is that a good idea?"

"What do you suggest, Gage?" Eingana said irritably. "That they wear hoods and masks? We need their help."

"I don't see a problem with hoods and masks," Velanna chimed in. "Asking them to reveal themselves is not _explicitly_ contrary to the First Warden's orders, but you know how he will react, don't you? We'll have to tell him."

"Yes, I know," Eingana sighed. "But he'll understand."

"Will he?" Gage said sharply. "Commander, I know this isn't the time, but I've been meaning to mention that-"

"He is meaning to come here Himself," the stranger interrupted. "You know He is not being able to hide."

Gage stopped short, staring at the stranger in surprise. Velanna looked similarly astonished.

"What?" Eingana exclaimed. "_Why_? How soon will he be here?"

"Soon," the stranger growled. "The why, that is part of the message."

"Eingana," Aveline spoke up. "What is this about? I appreciate that there are some things you cannot tell us about because they are secrets for the Wardens only, but if some dangerous mage... _being_... is coming to Kirkwall, especially given the present conditions of the city, I need to know."

Eingana was resting her forehead against one hand, and for a brief moment Isabela caught a glimpse of a vast, arid weariness behind her normally composed exterior. The Warden-Commander sheathed her blade and gestured to indicate that the others could do so as well. Varric hesitated before returning Bianca to his back, and Isabela let go of her knives. For the moment, it seemed, Cullen, Aveline, and Donnic were less willing to put their weapons away.

Eingana sat down on the couch and said "Go ahead, Unspoken."

The stranger reached up to lower his hood, and Merrill screamed the moment the light touched his face. Isabela did too – she couldn't help herself. Varric shouted and recoiled, and Cullen let out a strangled choking noise. Wynne merely sighed.

The stranger was not a man at all, but a hurlock.

Aveline gaped at the creature's rough, bloodless skin, the bony ridges along its head, the scythe-like protrusions that decorated either side of its face. Slowly, the Guard-Captain circled around the darkspawn, past Velanna and into the room. Her sword was gripped tightly in her hand, her face pale and drawn. Donnic and Brennan remained in the corridor just outside the room, holding a hastily whispered conversation.

"Are you being finished?" the hurlock said with a touch of annoyance in its voice. "Time, we are not having much of it."

Isabela was briefly startled, but then, bizarrely, she felt bad. _She_ certainly wouldn't want to be stared at in speechless horror the way everyone in the room was staring at the thing Eingana had called the Unspoken. She tried to avert her gaze, but it was extraordinarily difficult not to stare. Beside her, Merrill was trembling, but she seemed to have at least gotten over her instinct to continue screaming. Wynne was still strangely calm and unsurprised.

"What... what..." Aveline was at a loss for words. She looked back and forth between Eingana and the Unspoken, mouth working silently but clearly requesting clarification.

"He has Awakened," Eingana said tersely. "He is sapient. He is not like those who are still a part of the mindless horde, enslaved to the call of the Old Gods. He speaks and thinks for himself, has chosen a name by which to be known. He will not hurt you – unless you attack him first."

"That is being an accurate description of us," the Unspoken commented. "Others of my kind are not so friendly as I am being."

"Sapient," Varric repeated in wonder. He seemed to have gotten over his initial shock more quickly than Aveline, Merrill, Isabela, and Cullen had. He was staring at the darkspawn with something akin to fascination. "Truly? I've never heard of such a thing. I never even suspected it was possible."

"It cannot be," Cullen hissed. "There are no sapient darkspawn. Only the emissaries... and they are not even..." His voice trailed off.

"It is true, there are not many," Eingana said. A sour smile quirked the edges of her lips. "There is no doubt, however, that they are sapient. Enough to grasp the concept of irony, certainly – the Unspoken is a messenger. I met him in Amaranthine years ago, during the aftermath of the Blight."

The Unspoken's lipless mouth was curled into a horrific parody of a grin. "Honoured messenger, I am," he said. "That is being the reason I am here, which you are still not letting me be, and time it is short."

"Right," Eingana said briskly. "So what is it? Surely you're not here to... respond? Has he received my message already?"

The Unspoken cocked his head in confusion. "No response. You are sending to Him a message, and not by me?"

It almost sounded like the creature's feelings were hurt. Isabela shoved that thought forcefully from her mind. Sapient talking darkspawn were more than enough bizarre for one day without them developing emotional sensitivities, too.

"The Architect is having an important message for _you_," the Unspoken continued after Eingana had waved him on impatiently. "He is having wandered the far dreams... the place of other things. There he is finding one of yours, trapped and twisted."

Eingana's mouth opened slowly. "One of... mine?" she said softly.

"The Architect is sensing the taint in this mind," the Unspoken rasped. "It was no darkspawn, so it must be Grey Warden, yes? But twisted – two minds wrapped around each other like string – inseparable and unbroken. And themselves, this double-mind, trapped by another mind – itself twisted, painfully stretched around another thing – a terrible thing. A very old and powerful thing. The Architect, he is calling it-"

"Wyrd," Eingana breathed. The Unspoken made a curiously sinuous motion with his head.

"You are knowing of this already?"

"Holy shit," Varric said suddenly. "This... Architect you're talking about, he saw Anders! And Hawke, trapped in the Fade!"

"Yes, I think so," Eingana said. "Andraste's ass!"

A ripple of astonishment resounded around the room. Isabela could hardly believe the coincidence. This creepy sapient darkspawn mage that Eingana knew, the Architect, and which she had apparently contacted for help, _already knew_ about the situation with the wyrd, and had contacted her about it first! And hadn't the Unspoken said that "He is meaning to come here Himself"? Did this mean they would have the mages they needed, and in enough time to make a difference? Isabela hardly dared hope.

"What are the chances?" Eingana muttered, apparently thinking along the same lines. "Uh – Unspoken, how long ago was this?"

"The Architect is seeing the minds in the far dreams past upwards of two-thirds of one sun," said the hurlock.

"What?" Varric and Isabela asked in simultaneous bewilderment.

Eingana's face was creased in thought. "Two-thirds of a day ago, but upwards of that... say sixteen, maybe seventeen hours. That would make it an hour or a bit more past midnight last night. Does that sound about right?" she asked, glancing around.

Wynne nodded. "It would seem so. The sun had set some time before Cullen, Isabela and I reached the estate, and our descent to the nexus consumed perhaps another hour and a half. You said that the vault was activated only a short time before we arrived, yes? Say around midnight."

"Merciful Creators," Merrill suddenly spoke up. She had been following the discussion with wide eyes, having some apparent difficulty adjusting to the darkspawn's casual participation in conversation. "Do you think it's been torturing them all this time? We have to help them!"

"Yes, we do," Eingana said grimly. "Unspoken – you're right, we do know of this already. The wyrd the Architect saw has possessed a man of this city, Michael Hawke. He is called the Champion – a hero of the surface civilization. He is a peerless warrior, and if the wyrd were to gain unrestrained access to our world via his body, it would cause immeasurable catastrophe. Maybe even for the darkspawn as well – I don't know."

The Unspoken made his strange sinuous head-movement again. "This is making sense to us," he said. "The mind stretched around the wyrd – it is burning brightly. It is appearing to the Architect intense and difficult to snap, but the wyrd, it is stretching him thin. He is being contorted by the wyrd to fit itself. The Architect, he is not being able to tell if the mind resists still – it may be or may not be. Either way, it is being only a matter of time before it breaks."

"Which is exactly why we need your help," Eingana said urgently. "That's the message I mentioned earlier – I've sent word to the Architect, briefly describing the situation. What we need are his Disciples. We have a plan, a ritual we can conduct to send people into the Fade and fight the wyrd, possibly kill it or break it free from Hawke's mind. But we need more mages to do it. There are not enough in the city available to help us, and the Grey Warden the Architect saw trapped with Hawke – he is our most powerful mage, and he cannot help us as he is."

The Unspoken bobbed his head up and down in a familiar gesture made strange by his alien appearance. "The Architect knows this. He is coming here to help you. He is bringing his Disciples."

Eingana looked intensely relieved, and Isabela felt a surge of elation. They had a chance!

"But this is not being the end of the matter," the Unspoken added, and Eingana looked at him sharply.

"No? What else?"

"There is more the Architect must be telling you," the hurlock said. He turned around somewhat clumsily and indicated Gage and Velanna with a broad gesture. "You as well. The Wardens, there is something you must all be knowing. The Architect will tell."

Velanna and Gage looked at each other. Eingana shook her head.

"Fine," the Warden-Commander said. "We'll hear him when he gets here, then. When will he arrive?"

"Tonight," the Unspoken answered, shuffling back around to face her. "He is travelling the long Roads, deep beneath your sun-lit cities. He is coming up from darkness when the sun is dead and far away."

"Midnight," Eingana clarified, and the Unspoken did his sinuous nodding-motion again.

Varric rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The Deep Roads?" he muttered. "I wonder if there is an entrance somewhere in the Undercity?"

Eingana shook her head. "None that we know of," she said. "If there was such an entrance, I suspect it would have been on that map I showed you."

"Or on the one Blondie gave us years and years ago," Varric said contemplatively. "Yes."

"There may be tunnels," the Unspoken told them. "The Architect is not knowing until he is closer. Tunnels that are being shaped long ago by the world, shifting as time is passing. They are being on your maps only rarely. But do not be fearing – His magic is strong. He is being able to sense you Wardens from much far away, farther than I am being able to myself. He will know where to come."

"Well," Wynne stated. She looked a little uncomfortable, but relieved all the same. "I guess that's the problem of the mages solved, isn't it? We must continue our preparations for the ritual, so everything is ready to proceed at once as soon as the Architect and his mages arrive."

"Not that soon," the Unspoken argued. "He is speaking to the Grey Wardens first. There are critical things he is having to speak to them."

"Well, soon afterwards then," Eingana said. "Like you said, Unspoken, there is no time to waste."

"This is truth."

Isabela spoke up at that point, having first needed to muster her courage to speak to the bizarre creature. Curiosity had warred with disgust and revulsion within her for some time now, and curiosity inevitably won out.

"Are you a mage?" she asked.

The Unspoken turned to her and cocked its head. "Am I casting the magics?" he said. "No. I am the Unspoken. I am the carrier of important messages." He grinned at her, showing a mouth full of filthy, horrible fangs. Isabela tried not to shudder too obviously and gave him a weak smile in return.

She glanced at Cullen when he made a barely audible noise of seeming distress. The templar eyed her in return. He had put his weapon and shield away at some point, but he was frowning heatedly. He was clearly not as inclined to trust the Unspoken as the Grey Wardens were.

Aveline, too, still looked somewhat hostile. It might have had something to do with her first husband dying of the taint, Isabela speculated.

"What do you intend to do now?" Velanna was asking, addressing the Unspoken.

"I am staying here, to tell you when the Architect is approaching," the hurlock said. "He is determining His own path, and speaking it to me to speak to you."

"Speaking it to you?" Merrill asked curiously. "How can he speak to you without being near you?"

The Unspoken made his sinuous movement and didn't answer. He looked at Eingana. If Isabela deluded herself into thinking she could read the expressions on the creature's inhuman face, she might have thought he looked confused.

"Through the taint," Eingana guessed. "He relays his location and plan to you through the darkspawn group-mind."

The Unspoken nodded. "This is truth."

Merrill looked fascinated. "If I'm not too busy with ritual preparations, I'd love to talk about... that," she said. The fact that she was talking to a darkspawn seemed to have settled in, and any remaining fear or disgust eclipsed entirely by her natural, paradoxically innocent fascination with typically dark and evil things. "It sounds like powerful magic."

"It is being of the blood and the taint," the Unspoken said. "It is being... it is being... how we are. It is being nature. I do not know if I can be making it simpler than this."

"Maybe, but I can already think of some questions you might not have asked," Merrill said brightly. "You never know – you could even learn something about yourself and your people you didn't know before."

The Unspoken cocked his head at her and glanced at Eingana, who shrugged as if to say "Up to you." Isabela smiled and patted Merrill fondly. Only she would think to call the entire darkspawn horde "people" less than ten minutes after meeting one of the rare ones that could talk.

**ασυνέχεια**

After a long, long day of violence and bloodshed, the sun seemed relieved to sink at last below the horizon, closing its burning eye on Kirkwall for the night.

Activity throughout the city gradually died down. Sporadic fires continued to burn here and there. The city guard and renegade templars settled in at the Keep, remaining alert for both external threats and to the increasingly restless populace holed up inside. The templar loyalists gave up attacking the Bloodragers for the night, regrouping at the Gallows to lick their wounds and plan the next day's offensives. Meredith upheld the uneasy true Eingana had established; the Hawke estate was left alone, but the Knight-Commander's determination to discover the truth of what was going on there was undimmed. By her order, First Enchanter Orsino and a number of his mages began their investigation anew, urged on by the impatient, increasingly anxious templars.

In Lowtown, the inter-faction warfare halted with an uneasy and entirely temporary ceasefire; most of the gangs and guilds were content to rest during the night and protect what they had gained, or seethe and plot revenge over what they had lost. The Hanged Man remained a maelstrom of activity, safe within its cordon of deceptive peace maintained by the city guard and a few rogue templars. Lowtowners congregated there in huge numbers, filling every room and spilling into the surrounding streets. Alcohol flowed freely, doing less and less as time went on to dampen with merriment the upwelling aura of despair and fear.

In the remote darkness-shrouded corners of the ancient quarry, the elves huddled in their alienage, waiting out the storm. The canopy of the vhenadahl was lit eerily from below by pots of magical blue fire, maintained by elven apostates to provide light and comfort and to ward off hostile spirits. Left to their own devices for an unusually long time, quiet discussions arose here and there of topics that had remained generally undiscussed for generations – namely, the world of Elvhenan that had once been, the lost city of Arlathan, and the fall of the Dales.

Activity at the Hawke estate hardly abated as darkness fell. Merrill and Wynne remained entrenched in the drawing room, feverishly enchanting silver bowls, inscribing sigils and writing out instructions for lyrium channels. Cullen stayed with them, providing what help he could, as did Fenris, who proved unexpectedly valuable with his knowledge of the Tevinter language.

Donnic and Brennan wandered the upper floors, keeping an eye out for threats from without, while Bodahn busied himself preparing a late-evening meal and Sandal worked on his enchantments. Meanwhile, Eingana and her Wardens, accompanied by the Unspoken, ventured into the deep cellars to meet the Architect; Varric, Isabela, Aveline, and Reaver went with them to receive the expected delivery of lyrium.

**ασυνέχεια**

"Hang on," Isabela said. "There's a ward here, I think."

Ahead of her, the Unspoken came to an ungainly halt. He had pulled the voluminous hood of his cloak back up over his head, so as not to terrify the humans and dwarves who would come at the request of Varric's contacts to deliver the lyrium. He turned around as Eingana paused beside him, looking back at the pirate.

"Magics?" he asked. "Down here, for protection?"

"Yes," Isabela said. She eyed the dusty, cobwebby shadows above her as she pushed her way forward past Aveline and Varric, unable to help a shiver of remembered fear. There was plenty of light – Velanna and Gage both had their staves lit, and Aveline carried a brightly burning lantern. Still, the enclosed space and the memory of Hawke's attack in the chamber just ahead hovered unpleasantly close to the surface of her mind.

"What is being down here to protect from?" the Unspoken asked as Isabela moved past him and reached out, questing around with her fingers for the tell-tale tingle.

"That's a bit complicated," Varric said. "I expect Blondie was as concerned about people coming from above as from below."

The darkspawn cocked his head in confusion but didn't comment.

"It's a bit further down the corridor," Velanna pointed out dryly as Isabela continued to feel around in the air futilely, probably making a fool of herself in the process. "I can sense the ward you're talking about, but I've never encountered any magic like it before. I don't know how to break it."

"I might," Gage said. "It feels... familiar, but I'd have to examine it myself to know for sure."

"It's easy enough to get through," Isabela said, moving forward as the Dalish mage had suggested. "Provided nobody here has... now what did Fenris say? 'Serious designs on Hawke's life.'"

"We're here trying to help him, aren't we?" Velanna said witheringly.

"This Champion we're all spending so much time and effort trying to save from demonic possession," Gage mused. "What's he like?"

"He's a good man," Aveline said at once. "Though he can be..."

She paused, apparently searching for the right words.

"I believe Isabela summarized it nicely this morning with 'a brutal asshole,'" Varric supplied.

Reaver barked his enthusiastic agreement, and Varric and Isabela exchanged an amused grin.

Velanna raised her eyebrows distastefully; Gage let out a snort of laughter. "Sounds like my kind of man!"

"I was going to say _grating_, actually," Aveline said somewhat haughtily. "But... that is not inaccurate. As difficult as he is, however," she added, "I believe that Hawke means well. Most of the time. He has done a great deal for Kirkwall, saved us all from horrible deaths many times over."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Gage said airily. "From what you've told me about him-" he nodded towards Varric "he sounds rather like a male version of the Commander."

He smiled charmingly at Eingana, who made a mocking face back at him.

"Still," Gage continued, "I can't help wondering if this one man's life is more valuable to the world than the removal of as many darkspawn we could be killing right now. Or even the life of this other man, his lover who is trapped with him. We are Grey Wardens, after all," he finished, eyeing Eingana meaningfully. "Not a charity service."

Isabela would have shot a nasty retort back at him, but she had finally managed to find the magical "keyhole" that unlocked the ward. She spread her fingers, fighting back her instinct to yank her hand away as the warm, seemingly moist tingling spread across her hand.

"Maybe not, but rest assured you are doing the world good by helping us save Hawke," Aveline said heatedly. "For one thing, if he had not been here, Kirkwall would now be ruled by the qunari, and they may well have launched a second invasion of Thedas by now. How would _that_ benefit your struggle against the Blights?"

"I rather like the qunari," Gage said with a hint of a sneer in his voice. "They know who they are – they are not afraid to know their own selves. They would recognize the-"

"Shut up a minute, would you?" Isabela cut in. The rippling image of Hawke in his plate armour had formed in the air before her. He gave her a pained, sarcastic look, and Isabela couldn't help thinking _Oh, give me a break, Hawke. They're here to help._

Hawke raised his left hand and held it out with his fingers spread. Isabela touched her hand to his, and the warmth of the gatekeeper ward washed over her. Quickly, she stepped forward, noticing the open door to the lab materializing in the right-hand wall.

"Hold your hand in the air about there," Isabela said, turning around and gesturing where she meant. "Move it around until you feel the tingle. Open your fingers, and then when Hawke raises his hand, put yours against it. Then walk forward."

Gage looked at her sharply, but said nothing. Eingana moved forward and reached out to find the keyhole. Her fingers opened, and her mouth opened in surprise as the image appeared to her. She moved her hand to the correct spot – not the same one Isabela had used, for it was apparently different every time. Magic shimmered over the Warden-Commander and she stepped through.

One by one, the others followed. Velanna was next, then Aveline, then Varric. Reaver bounded through the ward without apparent effect; the ward might not have recognized him as capable of responding to it, or it might even have detected the dog's simple but intense affection for his master and allowed him through.

When the Unspoken moved forward for his turn, he did so hesitantly, almost fearfully. He held up a hand and spread fingers tipped with savage claws, and the magic rippled over him, letting him pass without incident. The darkspawn stumped forward, and while his pale, mottled face was difficult to read – particularly shadowed by his hood as it was – Isabela thought she could sense some relief about him. What had he been afraid of? The ward reacting to his darkspawn-ness and eliminating him for that reason, his lack of hostility towards Hawke notwithstanding? Well, he was through; it hardly mattered.

Gage was last; he stepped forward with a curiously eager expression and lifted his hand, drifting through and almost caressing the air as he searched for the keyhole. His eyes fell half-closed and his lips parted slightly when he found it, extending his arm to unlock the ward. He stepped through the dancing light of the magic with a lusty shiver, his eyes closed in apparent bliss, licking his lips and rolling his shoulders.

Isabela watched him with a raised eyebrow. She glanced around to see Varric and Aveline making much the same expression. Velanna and Eingana seemed unbothered, and the Unspoken was as impenetrable as ever.

"A gatekeeper spell," Gage said breathily. "Beautiful. So... delightful. Mmm."

"What are you talking about?" Aveline said peevishly.

Gage ignored her. "And such a handsome lad," he murmured. "I've changed my mind... we _must_ save him."

Varric, Aveline, and Isabela at once burst into disbelieving laughter. For the first time since he'd arrived at the estate, the lanky blood mage looked uncertain, even angry.

"What?" he said snarkily.

"I'd like to see you try and work your unctuous charms on Michael Hawke," Aveline said with an uncharacteristic trace of nastiness. Isabela couldn't really blame her; Gage was exactly the right type of person who perpetually rubbed the Guard-Captain the wrong way.

"'Unctuous' is a good word," Varric commented.

The mage sauntered forward, pressing himself into Aveline's personal space. "That would amuse you, hmm? Perhaps I should instead work my charms on _you_, milady Guard-Captain." He reached up to run his hands down her armour and rolled his head forward in an aggressive sniffing motion.

Isabela could have told him that was a bad idea, but she never had the chance. In a bare instant Aveline had Gage pressed against the wall with one hand flat on his chest and a knife against his throat with the other. Gage let out a startled gasp, but his sneer never faded.

"No thank you," Aveline said calmly. "I'm married." She pressed the knife a little forwards, just barely hard enough not to break the skin of Gage's neck. "Now are we going to have a problem?"

"I have no problem," Gage panted, golden eyes staring into hers as he ran his tongue suggestively along his teeth. "I'm fine right where I am. Please... a little harder?"

Aveline's eyes narrowed.

"Gage!" Eingana barked.

"Shit – blood mage, Aveline! Blood mage!" Varric said frantically. "Don't cut him!"

Aveline recoiled suddenly. She backed away from the grinning mage, holding her knife in a defensive position as if prepared to ward off an attack. The faintest trace of blood decorated Gage's neck where Aveline's blade had pressed a moment ago. Isabela watched in revulsion as the droplets of blood spindled out into dancing twines of magic that crawled up Gage's jaw and around his face, lending his toothy smile an almost demonic edge.

"Gage, get control of yourself this instant or so help me I'll have you on latrine duty at the Vigil until your Calling," Eingana said furiously.

Gage titled his head and looked at her with a sarcastic eyebrow raised. "Commander... you wouldn't."

"Try me," she snarled.

They glared at each other, but it took only a moment for Gage to back down. The aura of blood magic dissolved and the scratch on his neck sealed itself with an ethereal _thwit_ of noise.

"Now keep your hands to yourself, and don't do anything you know _might_ piss me off," Eingana growled. She gestured with her head for the others to continue.

Eyes wide, Varric nodded wordlessly and led the way into the laboratory. Velanna trailed him, throwing a dirty look at Gage; Isabela went next, still shaking off the burst of fear that had bloomed unpleasantly in her gut. Reaver trotted at her heels, followed by the silent Unspoken. Inside the room, the fireplace burst magically to life once again, filling the room with indistinct light and shadowy warmth.

Gage straightened his robes and obliged Eingana with a snide nod when she gestured for him to go first. Aveline watched him carefully as he entered the room. Eingana muttered a somewhat embarrassed apology to the Guard-Captain as they took up the rear into the laboratory; Aveline seemed a little shaken, but smiled at Eingana and waved it away.

"Creators," Velanna whispered, looking around the large chamber, filled with books and the assorted paraphernalia of magical experimentation Anders had accumulated during his research into Hawke's condition. Isabela noted that the laboratory was mostly unchanged since she had fought Hawke here with Fenris the previous day aside from the physical damage their battle had caused.

Varric had already made his way to the far door and was peering through the knothole, though he had had to drag an empty, dusty wooden crate over and stand on it to reach high enough to do so.

"I see a light, way off down there," the dwarf announced. "Probably my guys. It'll be a little while before they get up here."

Velanna was examining one of the many bookshelves in the room, scanning the various titles accumulated there. The Unspoken was looking around curiously with a series of twitchy glances, but he seemed content to stand near the center of the room, the farthest he could get from the workbenches. Isabela came to a halt near him, but not too near. Reaver ambled over to Varric, sniffing and butting up against him repeatedly until the dwarf gave in and started petting the massive dog.

Aveline and Eingana remained near the door. Gage had turned around to watch them enter, and opened his mouth to speak; Eingana shot him a poisonous look, at which he hesitated, but only for a moment.

"My apologies, madam," Gage said to Aveline, and though his voice was perhaps still a little silkier than was really conducive to expressing remorse, Isabela though he seemed sincere. "I overstepped my bounds in the corridor."

"You certainly did," Aveline said coolly.

"I did. Well, now I know." Gage nodded and gave her the first really not-creepy smile Isabela had seen on his face. He moved away, heading somewhat furtively towards one of the workbenches, on which sat a number of open tomes and a silver apparatus that appeared to be a combined sieve and scale.

"Stop!" Eingana commanded before Gage had gone more than two steps.

The mage turned around with a pained expression, and Eingana said firmly, "Go stand in the middle of the room and stay there."

"Oh, come on... you're letting _Velanna_ look around," Gage said almost petulantly.

Eingana rolled her eyes in disbelief. "Andraste, Gage, are you ten years old?"

"Com_mand_errr," he whined. "Please?"

Eingana relented, throwing up her hands. "Fine! Go ahead. But _don't touch anything!_" she warned as Gage went ahead. He waved his hand at her in perfunctory acknowledgement, and Eingana sighed. Isabela caught her eye, and the expression of amusement on her face managed to provoke a smile from the harassed elf.

They waited for perhaps ten minutes for Varric's contacts to show up, during which time Velanna and Gage moved around the room, examining its contents with interest. Eventually a series of knocks resonated on the door to the deep vault, hitting a highly irregular rhythm that was probably a code.

"That's them," Varric said, relieved, kicking his crate aside to begin unlocking the door. "Have we picked the lucky room for the climactic battle? It will have to be comfortable, if we're all going to be sleeping in there during the fight."

"Yes," Aveline said wryly. "Fenris told me where he thought the best room would be, and I checked it out on the way down. You and I will show them where to go, while the others wait for the darkspawn mage."

Varric nodded his assent and opened the door. Two men stood there, a human and a dwarf, both sporting heavy beards and wearing dark, shabby leather armour. Varric exchanged a few words with them and gestured towards Aveline. The men looked a bit nervous at the presence of the Captain of the Guard.

"Don't worry," Aveline assured the men. "You won't be arrested. For this."

Isabela smirked. That seemed good enough for the men, and they proceeded through the laboratory. Sixteen humans and dwarves filed past, eight pairs of two, each carrying between them a medium-sized metal box etched with dwarven runes. The boxes were sealed, but the iridescent sapphire glow shining from beneath the lids made it obvious just what was inside. Several of the boxes had sprouted strange crystalline growths on their lids and sides.

Gage and Velanna stood to one side, Eingana, Isabela, and Reaver to the other. The Unspoken retreated into a shadowy corner of the room, so that he was barely visible in the indistinct light of the fireplace. It was probably for the best, even with his hood – there was no sense risking revealing his nature to the men and terrifying them into hysterics while they were lugging boxes of refined lyrium.

Velanna and Eingana were watching the men with amazement, perhaps impressed by the sheer quantity of illegal lyrium Varric had come into possession of purely by accident. Gage, on the other hand, had a greedy, sinister smile on his face that made Isabela feel distinctly uneasy.

Varric took up the rear of the procession, waving as he left the room. He and Aveline would direct the men to take the lyrium to the appropriate room, and then up through the cellars into the estate proper, where they would leave via the front Hightown entrance. Aveline was of the opinion that things had calmed down enough in the city that the men would be able to make it safely to the Viscount's Keep. Varric's contacts' underlings were understandably somewhat vexed at being unable to return to Lowtown, but the dwarf had persuaded them that it was for the best with his usual charismatic charm.

"I'm no mage," Eingana commented when Varric had closed the door behind him with a thump, "but that looked like way more lyrium than we'll need."

"It is," Gage said with a glint in his eye that did nothing to make Isabela feel any better about what the blood mage might be thinking. "Quite a bit more."

"What will we do with the excess?" Isabela asked, looking pointedly at Eingana.

"I'm not sure," the elf replied. "It'll be up to Varric, I guess, and Wynne."

Gage snorted. "The answer to that should be perfectly obvious, Commander," he said. "_We_ will take it."

"Oh, you think so, do you?" Eingana replied tartly. "What use do you have for refined lyrium, Gage?"

"You're joking, right?" Gage replied, incredulous. "Think of the magic we could weave with even a third of what we just saw. Think of how many darkspawn we could kill. We're here, we're helping these people rescue their Champion – I think it's only fair that we get the spare lyrium as payment."

"Payment?" Velanna repeated. "As for services rendered?" She laughed sarcastically.

"I've said it already," Gage went on heatedly. "We are Grey Wardens. We have a duty we cannot shirk. Performing dangerous magic in the midst of the insanity going on in this city is not our business."

Eingana opened her mouth to protest, but Gage wasn't finished. "The expedition is due to leave within three days," he said with force. "We have already delayed it far too long, and you, Commander, have risked yourself for these people more than enough."

He stared hard at Eingana, yellow eyes unblinking. Isabela looked over at her and was uncomfortably surprised to see the pensive grimace on her face. She wasn't agreeing with Gage, but she wasn't disagreeing, either.

"As distasteful as this is for me to say, Commander," Velanna put in, "I must agree with Gage. There are other matters, much more pressing, that demand our attention. There are people, not us, who are equipped to deal with the wyrd. It is true that it represents a serious danger, but _other_ serious dangers also exist, which only _we_, the Grey Wardens, are equipped to deal with and which cannot be ignored much longer. The First Warden made that very plain."

"Yes, I know," Eingana said heavily.

"Forgive me, Commander, but I must wonder about the wisdom of invoking his name as you did earlier today, to the templar," Gage added. "He would not approve of you pitching his authority against that of a Knight-Commander of the Templar Order. Even one who was such a complete bitch as that one was." He smiled darkly.

"I know that too," Eingana told him. "And you're right about that... and about the expedition, too."

Isabela felt uneasy. Surely the Warden-Commander wouldn't abandon them _now_, right when they were on the verge of their only chance at success? Hawke's life hung in the balance, as did Anders's – not to mention the city of Kirkwall and possibly much more.

"But the First Warden's orders were quite clear," Eingana said decisively. "We must reach that thaig. Nothing and nobody must stand in our way. The wyrd stands in our way – and so might Meredith."

Gage let out an angry noise. "Commander, I know you care for these people, but the wyrd is _contained_. It is trapped at the nexus far below us and it will remain trapped. The host's body will eventually starve-"

Neither Isabela nor Reaver could remain silent any longer. Reaver barked angrily several times, and Isabela cried, "The _host_? He has a name, you piece of shit, and I wouldn't be surprised if Hawke's killed more darkspawn than _you_ have!"

"Be silent, you foolish girl," Gage spat. His oily charm and lewd smile had all but evaporated in the heat of his rage. Isabela nearly took a step backward under the pressure of his piercing golden eyes. "You have no _idea_ what you're talking about. You have your lyrium, and the Architect is coming with his Disciples. Your people here can pursue the creature into the Fade if you so choose, but we – the Wardens – must now leave. The wyrd is in no position at the moment to interfere with our expedition, and so it must go ahead while there is still time. Am I wrong, Commander?" Gage demanded, turning to Eingana.

Isabela and Velanna looked at her as well. The elf was grimacing, gripping her forehead, eyes squeezed shut.

"Eingana?" Isabela said softly.

"He's right," Eingana whispered. "Gage is right. I'm sorry, Isabela, I'm so sorry, but there are things you don't know, things I cannot tell you. We must-"

"I beg your pardon," a papery voice interrupted, startling everyone. "But there _is_ something else."

Isabela turned in the direction of the voice – towards the door to the deep vault. Soft green light filled her vision, swirling and pulsing in a beautiful undulating pattern of spirals and gossamer leaves. A shape was approaching in the haze, tall and spindly and wrapped in smooth, curving armour. It spread clawed hands in a gesture that might have been a gentle welcome or a deadly, hypnotic embrace.

The light faded, condensing into tendrils of magic that dissolved gradually into a diffuse viridian impression. The creature that appeared in its wake could only be the being called the Architect.

If Isabela hadn't realized what – _who_? – she was looking at, she would have thought it was a demon before she thought it was a darkspawn. His skin was a liquid mauve, his arms thin but wiry, his fingers tipped with delicate black claws that looked razor sharp despite their apparent frailty. She couldn't tell what his armour was made of, but it was ornately decorated and had no visible buckles or straps, all graceful, sweeping lines and tiered ribs.

Strangest of all was the creature's head. He was either wearing some kind of elaborate headdress that blended seamlessly with his skin, or his cranium was grotesquely swollen and disfigured; Isabela couldn't tell which. His eyes were covered by an asymmetrical golden mask which flared into a curved spike up the right side of his head. A protrusion or growth from his head/headdress that arched down on his left provided an oddly satisfying sort of balance to his face.

"I am sorry if I startled you," the Architect said. "You need not fear me."

He seemed to be looking at Isabela when he spoke, but the mask was solid – it covered his eyes, if he had eyes, completely. Isabela wondered how he could even see. His voice was soft and calm, almost wheezy.

"I – I – no problem," the pirate replied faintly.

"Architect," Eingana said behind her. "Good to see you again."

The darkspawn's lips curved up in a startlingly human smile. "And you... Warden-Commander," he said. He sounded tired, Isabela thought abstractly. Perhaps he'd had a long journey?

"Forgive us, but there are things of which we must speak," the Architect went on, and Isabela realized with a start of terror that it was talking to her again. "Things which I suspect you would not thank me for allowing you to hear."

"I... uh... you want me to leave?" Isabela said, thrown wildly out of her comfort zone by this alien creature. She thought she could see other shapes moving around in the gloom behind the Architect. His Disciples?

"I think that's best, Isabela," Eingana said gently. "If you don't mind."

"No... not at all," Isabela murmured. "I, uh, I'll just go and catch up with Varric and Aveline, then. And you can come up when you're done. Good?"

"Good," Eingana said gratefully. "Thanks, Isabela."

The Architect bowed his huge, strange head. "My thanks as well."

"Sure. C'mere, Reaver."

Hawke's Mabari was staring up the Architect silently, utterly still, but he looked up at her and started to pant when Isabela reached down to pat him on the head. Slowly, still shaking off the numbing effect of the Architect's magic and his debilitating strangeness, Isabela made for the door. Reaver followed her.

"See you in a bit," Isabela said, glancing back to wave at the Grey Wardens and their visitor as she opened the door to the upper cellars. It was a bizarre scene – two elves and a lanky human all looking over at her, the Unspoken off to one side and the Architect behind them, infinitely foreign. Isabela caught a glimpse of savage, bloodless faces in the darkness beyond, and with a sudden thrill of terror, she darted out of the room as quickly as she could. She closed the door behind her and hurried down the corridor, eager to get as much distance between her and those things. She had never really given the matter a great deal of thought, but in that moment Isabela had never been happier that she was _not_ a Grey Warden.

**ασυνέχεια**

Some time later, Eingana, Velanna, and Gage emerged from the cellars to find Isabela, Aveline, Varric, Fenris, Merrill, Cullen, and Wynne all waiting for them in the common room. Only the Wardens stepped out of the doorway that led to the stairs down – it seemed the Architect and his Disciples would be content to wait in the cellars until they were needed.

Isabela had told the others about Gage's belief that the Wardens were needed more urgently elsewhere, and Eingana's struggle over whether or not to accept his advice. Consequently, those assembled in the common room of the Hawke estate watched the Wardens with some concern, for it was by no means certain whether or not they would abide and offer their aid.

That is, until Eingana opened her mouth and spoke.

"We will stay," she said simply. "We will help."

She looked disturbed. Velanna wore a troubled frown, and even Gage's habitual sneer had become distant and pensive.

"What?" Wynne asked concernedly. "What is the matter, my dear? What have you been told?"

Eingana shook her head. "We will stay. Velanna and Gage will take part in the ritual; the Architect has brought enough Disciples that everyone else may enter the Fade. I will go with you and do what I can to help. That is all you need to know."

She would say no more.

**Ω**


	26. Rituals

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Rituals"**

Superficially, there was no difference between the rooms and corridors of the Hawke estate that were protected by Wynne's magic and Sandal's enchantments and those that were not. One could tell which section one was in, of course; a glimmering barrier in a window sill, hardly visible at all, might catch a wandering eye, and there were the lyrium runes etched into the walls here and there. Aside from that, one part of the mansion looked much like any other part. Only the furniture and wall decorations varied from room to room and hall to hall.

Still, to Donnic it felt different outside their tiny isolated world, beyond the haven of their proverbial sphere of safety. The long hallways potentially exposed to external demonic influences were deceptively quiet and still. Few noises disturbed the peace within the mansion from Hightown outside; the pleasantly cool summer's night breeze wafted in through the gas-permeable barriers, causing the curtains to flutter and tapestries on the walls to stir ever so gently. All was peaceful, or a least consistent with an illusion of peace. And yet Donnic was tense, hyperalert for any unnatural changes in temperature or shifting air currents, eyes moving restlessly and searching every corner for shadows that didn't move right.

Patrolling the quiet, empty hallways of Michael Hawke's mansion, keeping an eye out for demons while the city heaved with cataclysmic change around them, was not something Donnic had ever expected to be part of his job description. He was used to fighting smugglers and slavers and the occasional crazed apostate, not outright demons. He was out of his comfort zone. Especially with his wife preparing to take part in some enigmatic ritual involving illegal lyrium, of all things, not mention Grey Wardens _and_ sapient darkspawn mages. Didn't the Grey Wardens hate darkspawn on principle? Wasn't the point of that ancient order to eliminate the darkspawn threat? This was all way above his pay grade.

Then Brennan said "Cheer up, hoss," and Donnic realized at least some of his thoughts must have been showing on his face. "Captain's never let us down before."

"When has she ever gone into the Fade to fight a powerful demon that's possessed the Champion of Kirkwall?" Donnic asked.

"Well... maybe not that _specifically_," Brennan admitted, "but c'mon, Donnic. Captain can handle herself. She's badass, your wife is. Probably more than you and me combined!"

Donnic laughed. "You know, you're probably right."

They were walking down the long third floor corridor that ran behind the exterior wall of the mansion, on the other side of which was the façade in Hightown Square. By the view from the windows, the square outside was empty. It was not, however, a typical Hightown night: the serious damage to various buildings and the greenery-covered pillars in the center were rather hard to miss, as were the mounds of ethereal scoria and piles of dead Bloodrager thralls the templars hadn't bothered to dispose of.

"How many of those talking darkspawn do you suppose there are?" Brennan wondered idly as they walked.

They were passing by one of the warded rooms, one of only two on the entire third floor. Donnic had noticed that most of the rooms up here were closed, the furniture shrouded by dusty sheets and apparently rarely used, if ever. He had to wonder why any of the rooms on this floor were warded at all, if there were enough unoccupied chambers on the lower floors to accommodate everyone staying at the mansion. Still, the rune on the door and the muffled sounds coming from within – apparently those of some form of martial practice – seemed to indicate that at least one person at the estate preferred the isolation of the third floor.

"Not many, I think, which is just fine with me," Donnic replied. "Aveline said she asked the Warden-Commander, and _she_ said that their numbers are few – but of those, most are emissaries, which means they have magic. Apparently the smart ones can control the stupid ones, and they've been working with the Grey Wardens to-"

A resonant howl ripped down the corridor, fluttering the curtains wildly and shaking a few grimy portraits on the walls. Donnic and Brennan both instinctively ducked, reaching for their weapons. Donnic turned around to see a torrent of shades raging down the hall towards them. Icy fear gripped his heart as he readied his sword and shield, perhaps futilely. How was this possible? That this many demons should have infiltrated the estate without at least _one_ of the mages present noticing was unthinkable.

Donnic and Brennan could do little but raise their shields and crouch defensively as the demonic tide washed over them. Donnic braced himself, expecting to be hurled back by all the supernatural force a horde of shades could exert. Instead, at the precise moment the spirits reached the guardsmen and they should, by all accounts, have been drained and killed, the demonic horde vanished into thin air.

"What?" Donnic whispered in bewilderment, peering over his shield. "An illusion?"

"Donnic," Brennan hissed. "Look!"

Donnic looked around to see what had Brennan staring so fearfully. It was a demon, a scant few meters in front of them. It looked rather like a shade, except it was larger and somehow filmier –as if it were less substantial, not as well materialized in this world. The creature drifted towards them, beckoning with one gossamer hand-shape. Ribbons and streamers of degenerate purple-black matter undulated from it in every direction.

_It's very late,_ a soft, insidious voice whispered in his mind. _Would you like to rest for a while?_

Donnic's eyelids immediately grew heavy, and a pervasive, deadening weariness washed through him. He would, really, like very much to rest. Just for a little while. He was so exhausted, he could have gone to sleep right there on the floor, and the more he thought about it the more that sounded like a really good idea.

Beside him, Brennan was swaying on her feet and yawning. Yes... they were both exhausted. They really did need to sleep – they could be of no use to anyone if they were dead on their feet, after all.

Slowly, Donnic set down his shield, leaning it against the wall. Aveline would kill him if he scuffed it. He wondered what to do with his blade... he could easily cut himself on it if he just kept it unsheathed while he slept, but on the other hand, if he went to sleep without a weapon nearby, Aveline would-

_Aveline_, Donnic thought furiously. _Aveline..._

An image of his wife bloomed in his mind. In his imagination, she slapped him across the face. _Stay awake, Donnic! _Aveline urged. _It's a demon! It's lulling you into unconsciousness so it can suck your mind clean!_

Donnic mustered his willpower, trying his hardest to listen to those words, to resist the demon's call. He made some progress, but once the demon became aware that he was waking up, it redoubled its efforts at bewitching him. Tendrils of dusky magic swirled from the spirit, encompassing the two city guards and twining up their legs and around their arms.

_Sleep_, soothed the voice. _It is so late. You are so tired. It has been such a long day... rest will do you good._

"Nnnnnno," Donnic ground out. He forced himself to raise his blade, struggling against what felt like lead weights tied around his wrists and elbow. Every joint in his body ached. The urge to lie down and rest was becoming unbearable, rising through his body and filling his head as if he was sinking underwater, sinking into warm, comforting blackness.

"De... mon..." Brennan slurred. "Bastard." She sounded as tired as Donnic felt.

Behind them, a door slammed open, startling them both. Donnic felt an unexpected surge of energy, and he seized it, lurching forward with his blade extended and piercing the sloth demon through its ugly purple face. It wailed in pain and reared back, withdrawing the creeping flow of its magic.

A burst of kinetic force erupted between the guardsmen and the demon, sending Donnic and Brennan stumbling backwards and provoking another otherworldly groan from the spirit. Donnic was snapped fully back to himself; he took a deep breath and darted forward to snatch up his shield as soon as he'd recovered his balance. Brennan shook her head, clearing away the cobwebs of the demon's magic.

A blurred shape darted between the two of them, moving so fast Donnic couldn't tell who or what it was. The demon howled again, cowering away from a sudden vicious assault, and Donnic realized their rescuer was the Grey Warden, Gage. It seemed he had been the one within the closed room Donnic and Brennan had passed.

Gage whirled with his arms outstretched, two wickedly curved knives flashing in his hands, and the demon was driven backwards in abject retreat. It all happened so fast that by the time Donnic and Brennan had fully recovered themselves, the blood mage had reduced the sloth demon to a diffusing mist of denatured particulate matter.

Donnic kept a tense grip on his sword, waiting to see if more demons would attack. None did.

Gage turned around with a lazy swagger, twirling his knives and eyeing the guardsmen with a smug, toothy grin. He wore nothing but a pair of baggy, loose trousers, and metallic rune-engraved bracers gleamed on his wrists. Clearly, he was capable with more than just magic, Donnic noted. The sounds he had heard from the room suggested the demon's attack had interrupted the mage's training – with his knives. That was good to know.

"Well, well," Gage purred, coming to a halt in front of the two guardsmen a little closer than Donnic was comfortable with. "The city _guard_, beset by a demon of sloth. Dozing on the job?"

It was the ironic emphasis he placed on the word _guard_ that pissed Donnic off.

"How were we supposed to know that would happen?" he snapped. "We were expecting shades, a few at a time. Not sudden out-of-the-blue mind control."

"Still." Gage flipped one of his knives up into the air and caught it deftly. "One wonders what might have happened had I not been here." He shook his head and clicked his tongue disappointedly, examining the degenerate char on his blade. His eyes flicked to Brennan, and then to Donnic. "_Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_, hmm?"

He spoke the words with a rolling, hypnotic accent. It sounded like Tevinter, but Donnic was damned if he knew what it meant. Not that he needed to; Gage's mocking tone of voice made his meaning clear enough.

Donnic rolled his eyes. "You're hilarious, really. Return to your training, mage. We will inform the enchanter of the incursion."

Gage raised one eyebrow mockingly. "Oh, yes? Already? But the incursion is not yet over." He raised his knives, eyes narrowing.

"What?" Brennan said in alarm, looking around.

"Behind you, fool," Gage hissed. Donnic and Brennan whirled as Gage whipped past them, heading down the corridor towards the far corner of the mansion where the air was bulging and rippling, tearing itself apart. A powerful demon was about to cross the Veil.

"One of us should run and tell the Captain," Brennan suggested nervously, inching forward with her shield raised as if expecting shades to materialize right in front of her.

"Let's not bother her just yet," Donnic said cautiously, good judgement and concern for his wife warring in his gut. Concern won. "Let's see what the blood mage can do."

Gage came to a halt roughly a third of the way down the corridor from the corner where the demon was emerging. Donnic and Brennan advanced as the air was rent with an earsplitting screech. A desire demon emerged, unfolding its elegant body, ethereal gaze locked on Gage.

The demon raised its clawed hands in a gesture of summoning, and with a further tearing of the local Veil at least a dozen shades materialized around it. They swarmed towards Gage, the desire demon sauntering forward behind its underlings more slowly.

In response, Gage crossed his wrists and swept both of his knives along the smooth, unprotected flesh of his inner forearms. Droplets of blood splattered the walls to either side, flung outwards by the emphatic force of his motion. Gage drew back a bleeding arm and hurled one of his knives through the vortex of shades at the desire demon; the moment the blade had left his hand he made an eager clawing gesture. A crimson magical aura billowed out from the slashes on his arms, spreading fractal tendrils into the surrounding air.

As Donnic and Brennan reached the mage, more shades arose between them and the oncoming horde, accompanied by two bellowing rage demons. The spirits promptly began tearing each other apart, and a cacophony of resonant groaning and howling ensued. Beyond the otherworldly battle, the desire demon staggered with incongruous gracelessness: Gage's knife was lodged squarely in its gut.

"What in the Void?" Donnic yelled. "You idiot, you summoned _more_ of them?"

"Back!" Gage snarled, whirling around and brandishing his remaining knife. "Get back!"

With Gage's blade flashing uncomfortably close to their faces, Donnic and Brennan had little choice but to do as he said, and they retreated a few steps. Donnic eyed the battling demons ahead of him, gripping his sword with white-knuckled apprehension. Aveline's orders had explicitly been to prioritize protection of the mages in the estate from any external threats, since they were needed for the ritual. It was increasingly obvious, however, that Gage needed no such protection. Still, what good was he to anyone if he brought as many demons down on their heads as he killed?

Donnic glared at the blood mage's back, noticing the long, ugly scar that crossed over his left shoulder and slashed diagonally down across his slender back. Donnic had time to wonder how Gage might have survived such an injury before a cold, clammy not-hand touched the back of his neck. He whirled at once, his sword outstretched and slicing the shade into halves which disintegrated into foul-smelling slag.

"Protect my back while I kill the desire demon," Gage ordered over his shoulder, and without waiting for a response he darted nimbly forward into the raging chaos that filled the corridor ahead of him.

Donnic cursed, and he heard Brennan mutter a few similarly vile oaths against the maverick Warden, but they again had little choice but to obey him. The hostile spirits into whose midst Gage had moved were occupied combating the shades and rage demons he had summoned, and so Donnic and Brennan went to work dispatching those the desire demon had apparently commanded to attack them from behind.

The noise behind them gradually died down; Donnic chanced a glance behind him to see which party was winning. The rage demons Gage had summoned were still there, which he supposed was a good sign. Donnic grimaced at the thought. Thinking of rage demons as a good sign was itself unquestionably a _bad_ sign.

There were perhaps five shades remaining in front of Donnic and Brennan when the survivors of Gage's minions swarmed around them and took over the fight. Surprised, Donnic and Brennan could do little other than stand back and gape as the spirits savagely killed one another.

"Demon-on-demon violence," Brennan remarked. "Kinky."

Donnic gave her a withering look, and the guardswoman smiled cheerfully back. "Better them than us, innit?"

That was true, Donnic thought, nodding his agreement.

They both spun around at the sound of an angry, drawn-out wail behind them. Gage had retrieved his knife that was stuck in the desire demon and had just slashed two long, parallel gouges down the creature's flank. He leapt back with startling agility to avoid a retaliatory swipe of its claws and reached out with one hand, extruding a tentacular whip of blood magic that lashed around the demon's neck. Gage pulled back hard with a gleeful snarl, jerking the demon forwards, and brought his knee up to crack it hard in the face.

The bloodied demon let out a high-pitched, angry noise and began to gather a cloud of icy magic around itself, preparing to strike back magically at its opponent. Before it could finish its spell, Gage executed a graceful spinning kick, slamming his bare foot into the demon's head with a resounding _crunch_. The demon staggered to one side, keening in agony; Gage recovered his balance with inhuman quickness and lunged, laughing insanely. His knives found the demon's eyes with unerring precision and perfect simultaneity, driving the curved blades completely through its head and nailing the unfortunate creature to the wall behind it.

"Well, then," said Brennan with an air of finality.

Both of them watched with somewhat morbid fascination as Gage leaned forward to run a finger along the dead demon's smooth face. He whispered something in its ear and drew back, yanking his knives free as he did so. The demon's corpse flopped pathetically to the floor, smearing the wall and carpet with purple-black blood.

"Charming," Donnic commented. He glanced around to check on the progress of the skirmish behind him. Gage's demons had dealt with the others, and now hovered and swirled in the air idly, awaiting instruction. They seemed utterly uninterested in Donnic and Brennan, which was just fine with both of them.

Donnic's instincts screamed at him to attack the blighted creatures and kill them all while they offered no resistance, but he restrained himself. He had no idea how Gage might react to such an action and he had no desire whatsoever to test the man.

Gage rolled his head around on his shoulders and shivered delightedly as he approached the guardsmen. "That was _fun_," he murmured. "I wasn't expecting any exertion this late at night..."

He seemed to notice Donnic and Brennan staring at him. "Oh... good job, you two," he added indifferently. "Are you injured? The Circle witch is downstairs, if you need healing."

"Are you crazy?" Donnic demanded. "You summoned demons!"

"Indeed I did!" Gage replied without the slightest trace of remorse. He smiled darkly. "And if I hadn't, you would doubtless both have been sucked dry, all your vital and emotional force drained to sustain mindless spirits in this world for a little while longer."

Brennan shuddered and looked away from the Grey Warden's piercing golden gaze.

"If that sounds more appealing to you than continued life," Gage went on, "I would of course be happy to summon a few more and grant you your wish. These dear ones, unfortunately, are already bound to my will, and to make them do so would require _so_ much effort." He made a careless gesture, and the demons wisped away, dissolving back into their own realm.

"It _would_ be nice to be able to pay off a few old debts," Gage finished contemplatively.

"You're sick," Brennan said disgustedly. "You're lucky the Captain wants you alive."

Gage sneered at her. "_You're_ lucky I have no reason at present you kill you and use the resources of your flesh to power my magic, girl."

Donnic leveled his sword at the blood mage with an angry glare. "Don't even _think_ about it."

Gage glanced at him, eyeing him up and down scornfully. Despite the fact that Donnic was wearing his guardsman's plate and Gage was wearing nothing but baggy trousers, he seemed totally unafraid. "Oh, I've _thought_ about much more than that," he said coldly. "And I daresay if I desired to so use either or both of you, neither of you could stop me."

"What's that scar from?" Brennan asked abruptly, seemingly eager to change the subject. She gestured; Donnic looked where indicated and realized that the same scar on Gage's back continued over his shoulder and down across his chest and stomach towards his right hip. There was no telling how much longer it was – the shiny mark disappeared below the waist of his trousers.

Gage looked down at himself and a sinister grin lit up his face. "That's a bit of a story," he said silkily. He stroked the mark with one of his knives, smearing his chest with demon blood. "Do you like it? I like to think it gives me a certain rugged character. Like it makes me seem... dangerous."

"You _are_ dangerous," Donnic pointed out.

"Exactly, and some people are attracted to danger. I happen to be attracted to people who are attracted to danger, so why not advertise the fact?"

"As if you don't do that enough already," Brennan said, rolling her eyes.

"You want to see how far down it goes?" Gage purred, wiggling one eyebrow at her suggestively. He hooked a thumb into the waistband of his trousers and tugged down on them, revealing his smoothly muscled hip and a hint of wiry pubic hair. The scar continued down his right thigh as far as he'd revealed and, apparently, farther still.

"Maker's breath, man, keep your pants on," Donnic exclaimed.

"Yes, seconded," Brennan piped up hastily.

Gage pursed his lips in mock disappointment and released his thumb, which didn't entirely suffice to return his trousers to their former, rather more modest configuration.

"You two are no fun," he said with a pout that made him look dangerously, disturbingly innocent. "No wonder you're just boring city guards."

"It's far from a boring life," Donnic assured him. His eyes traveled up the scar on Gage's body, curious despite his disgust of the man. With its near-mirror image on his back, it almost looked as if Gage had been all but bisected. But that couldn't possibly be right – nobody would survive such an injury.

Donnic also noted, with wry bemusement, that aside from the metal rings adorning his lip, eyebrow, and ears, Gage had somehow affixed studded rings through his nipples. He raised an eyebrow. How, Donnic wondered, did one prevent such things from becoming infected? It seemed a foolish risk to take for simple bodily adornment.

Gage noticed where his eyes were and smirked.

"Do you like them? I have the head of my dick done, too. Drives the ladies _wild_. And the lads, too." He licked his lips. "Literally, sometimes."

Brennan was plainly horrified. Donnic held up his hands to forestall any further disclosures on such matters. "That is _far_ more than I needed to know, serah. I think it would best if we continued our patrol, and you returned to your-"

Thumping footsteps behind them distracted everyone present, and moments later Eingana appeared at the far end of the hallway, enchanted longsword flashing in her hand. She saw them and raced down the corridor in their direction.

"What?" the elven woman said when she had come close enough to be heard without shouting. "What happened, what did I miss? Wynne said something about demons-"

"All dealt with, Commander," Gage said smoothly. "No need to fear."

Brennan made a disbelieving snort as Eingana came to a halt, hardly winded at all despite having just run most of the length of the mansion. Gage glanced at the guardswoman, and suddenly he was right in front of her. Brennan gasped in surprise.

"You would prefer to fear?" Gage whispered, his mouth inappropriately close to Brennan's neck. "That can be arranged." He stroked her cheek softly with the back of one finger.

Brennan recoiled and shoved him away with a gauntleted hand on his chest. "Get _off_ me, you sick shit. Ugh!"

Gage snickered. Eingana heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Gage," she muttered. "Why, for the love of Andraste, do I put up with you?"

"Because I'm so sexy, of course," Gage replied, as if this should be obvious. He stared at the Warden-Commander with one eyebrow arched slyly, raising one of his knives to lick the demon blood congealing along its blade. He then slid the flat of the blade across his chin, over his neck and down his chest, using the point to toy with the silver ring that pierced his left nipple. "Don't deny it."

"Oh, yes?" Eingana said dryly. "As far as I know, being a narcissistic murdering rapist bastard has no objective value to the Grey Wardens other than the inherent worth of your body as a meat shield."

"And also because I'm so good at killing darkspawn," Gage amended.

Eingana snapped her fingers. "Right, that's the one. Now go downstairs and help Wynne." She gestured with her head towards the intersection halfway down the corridor which led to the stairs.

Gage stared at her. "Commander, much as you may be inclined to believe that I've been tormenting the poor defenseless city guards for the past three hours, I was in fact in the middle of a training routine when the demons appeared."

"I said go downstairs, Gage," Eingana repeated dangerously. "Do I need to get out the whip again?"

"Oooh." Gage's eyes widened with apparent excitement and he leered at her, running his tongue along his upper teeth. "Yes, please."

"_Go_!" Eingana gestured emphatically in the direction she wanted him to go. Gage glared at her. Eingana glared back.

After a few moments of stalemate, Gage gave in and looked away.

"Fine," he grunted. He winked and blew a mocking kiss at Brennan as he sauntered past her and down the hall.

"Behave yourself," Eingana called after him. Gage waved a knife without turning around.

"Asshole," Eingana muttered.

"I heard that!"

"_Behave_!" Eingana rubbed her forehead tiredly and looked at Donnic and Brennan, who were both torn between amused grins and disturbed grimaces.

"I'm sorry," Eingana said. "He didn't do anything too... inappropriate, did he?"

"He did almost pull his pants down, to show us his scar," Donnic supplied. "We got him to stop, thank the Maker."

Eingana tried not to smile. "Good call. Trust me, you don't want to see the rest of that scar. So... demons? How many?"

"Counting the ones he summoned?" Brennan asked.

Eingana looked pained. "Yes."

"Lots," Brennan said. "At least a few dozen shades, a couple of rage demons... one sloth, one desire. All gone now, as far as we could tell, but who knows?"

"I think the sloth demon was just wandering," Donnic chimed in. "It had just about put us to sleep when he saved us. Lucky thing, that." He scratched his head in muted embarrassment. "Afterwards, though – I think the desire demon might have sensed him leave the warded room, and come for him specifically."

"Yes, probably," Eingana sighed. "Thanks for your help, guardsmen. But... if a sloth demon was able to lull you nearly to sleep so easily, you could probably use some actual, voluntary sleep. I can patrol around up here for a while, see if there's anything else lurking, if you want to go get some rest."

Donnic glanced at Brennan. That actually sounded really good. Brennan looked as weary as he did, and she nodded her agreement.

Donnic nodded to Eingana. "We'll do that. Thank you."

"Go and see your wife," Eingana said kindly. "I imagine she'll be going to bed soon herself, and you may not get a chance in the morning before..."

She left the sentence unfinished, but all present knew what she meant: _before she goes under again_. _Before she enters the Fade to fight the wyrd, possibly – probably, even – never to return._

"I'll come back down in a while if it seems like there's no spooks creeping around up here," Eingana said. "No sense patrolling the third floor if nobody's using it."

"I thought that myself," Donnic remarked. "Goodnight, Warden-Commander."

"Andraste be with you," Brennan added. Eingana waved them way, and the city guards departed, relieved and looking forward to their rest.

**ασυνέχεια**

Velanna spoke without looking up from the silver bowl she was enchanting. "Forgive me, sister, but I am finding it difficult to understand why you would choose to live in this disgusting city."

"You get used to it after a while," Merrill said absently.

"Creators, the _filth_...! And among these barbarous shemlen at that – who will forever see you as a second-class citizen if they see you at all," Velanna ranted.

Merrill blinked. "It's not _that_ filthy, really."

"But it is," Velanna insisted. Her hands shimmered with a faint Fade-blue aura as she imbued layers of magic into the bowl. "Shemlen cities are all the same; some are simply worse than others. I have been in more than a few and this one... this one is _particularly_ repulsive. And the alienages are the worst of all. In the wilderness, at least the dirt is of the earth, as it should be. At least _life_ grows from it!"

"Life grows here, too," Merrill replied earnestly. "I know the filth and the stench and the smoke take getting used to... it took years for me to stop noticing it. And there's the dampness everywhere, and the humidity in the summers and the mildew-"

"Listen to yourself," Velanna said, irritated. "Why, _why_ would you prefer such things to the clear air, the sunlight in the trees, the murmuring rivers, the breeze rustling your hair?"

"It's just a different environment," Merrill said haltingly, struggling to a find a way to express what she meant. She made a lifting gesture with her hands, an aura radiating from her skin to match Velanna's. The bowl between them sparkled as its enchantments crystallized one step closer to completion.

"The wilderness has its dangers as well, doesn't it? Things that are ugly, that you would rather they weren't there, but if they weren't then it would be incomplete. What would the city be without all the layers of grime?"

"Clean," Velanna said pointedly.

"It wouldn't _be_ at all. The grime is... it's the mark of life, the residue of people going about their business. It accumulates with time..."

"It accumulates with decadence, with recklessness, with wanton, brutal destruction," Velanna argued. "It is not the mark of life – it is the mark of human folly, and the mark of millennia of their abhorrent treatment of elves. How can you not see this?"

"Not all humans treat elves like garbage," Merrill said stubbornly. "A lot of them do, yes, but not all. Hawke, for instance. He's always been... well, not exactly _kind_ to me..."

She furrowed her brow in frustration, not wanting to speak ill of the man they were trying to save. "He's respectful. He's never talked to me like a lot of the humans here do, like all elves should be servants. Like I'm a – what did you say? A second-class citizen."

"So I've heard," Velanna muttered. "If that is so, he is part of a distinct minority. If only there were more like him."

Merrill traced her finger around the rim of the bowl, eliciting a clear, melodic ringing noise. The enchantments were complete, the fifth of six to be done.

"One more," Merrill sighed. She let out a long, jaw-cracking yawn and stretched her arms. Velanna picked up the bowl and set it aside

"You... don't seem to like humans very much," Merrill ventured, shocked at her own boldness.

"No?" Velanna said acidly. "Believe me, I used to be much worse. The other Wardens tell me I have... _mellowed_, and considerably so, since I joined them." She let out a short, sarcastic laugh. "That was over four years ago, now. I'm not sure what to think of such comments..."

She grunted. "I suppose my time with the Wardens _has_ taught me much about the human lands and their ways... I am continually surprised at how much I do not know."

Her lip twisted sourly and she continued, "Before I met the Commander, I killed countless humans whose caravans routinely traveled through a forest where I lived in Amaranthine. My clan had been in conflict with the humans for some time previously, and I believed them responsible for the deaths of a number of my clanmates."

She seemed to be having difficulty speaking. Merrill waited patiently.

"They were not," Velanna went on eventually. "It was a ploy by one of the first of the Awakened darkspawn – it and its minions were the true murderers, but they arranged the scene to imply that the humans had done it. The humans themselves, meanwhile, rapidly grew tired of me slaughtering their merchants and militia, and so they sent someone to deal with me once and for all. I was lucky that person was Eingana – if she had not discovered the truth, and... and forgiven me for it, I would doubtless be long dead by now."

"I'm so sorry," Merrill said softly. "Did you... get the darkspawn?"

"Yes," Velanna answered, somewhat roughly. "My clanmates were avenged. All except..."

She looked away. "All except one."

Merrill burned with curiosity about what Velanna might mean by that, but it was obvious to her that relating these memories was painful for the other elf. Merrill knew the others believed her to be oblivious to such subtle social cues, but she liked to think she was more perceptive than they realized. Most of the time, anyway.

Merrill reached over the table to touch Velanna comfortingly on the hand. "Thank you for telling me this, _lethallan_. And thank you for helping us save Hawke."

"The Wardens are doing this for reasons of their own, you know," Velanna replied, wiping her eyes discreetly.

"I know," Merrill said. "But you're doing it all the same."

Velanna looked at her searchingly for a moment, but eventually she smiled.

**ασυνέχεια**

"Now, you really shouldn't eat these all at once," Eingana said as she straightened up. "So I'm going to give the rest to Bodahn to put in cold storage."

Gage watched her with his arms folded disinterestedly, leaning against the wall of the larger first-floor dining room. He'd found a shirt somewhere – Eingana had no idea where – but had thrown it over his shoulder rather than put it on.

Reaver looked up at the Warden-Commander and made a plaintive whine, the lamb bone she had given him clamped securely in his teeth.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Eingana scoffed. "You know it's for the best. If you just gnaw them all down to nothing in the space of one night, it will be like an orgy of lamb bone and you'll be sick in the morning, and ruined for lamb bones for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?"

A negative growl.

"Didn't think so," Eingana said, satisfied. She gave Reaver a pat on the head. "So I'll get you another one in the morning before the ritual, and then... well..."

She sighed. "If nobody comes back..."

Where would Reaver go, Eingana wondered. Bodahn and Sandal certainly wouldn't stay at the estate with their master dead, all his beloved companions also dead, and the city burning around them. Eingana was touched and impressed that the dwarves had stayed this long, but Bodahn had confided to her that he had received an invitation for himself and Sandal to serve at the Imperial Court in Val Royeaux. He was still considering the offer – his response would depend on many things, not the least of which was whether or not Hawke survived the coming storm with his mind intact. If he did not, Bodahn could hardly do better than serving Empress Celene.

But Reaver – he would be left without his master, the one on whom he had imprinted. _One more reason we must succeed._ Maybe the dwarves would take him with them; Sandal, at least, seemed to get along quite well with the dog.

"I'll make sure Bodahn gets them to you, or tells you where they are so you can get them yourself," Eingana decided.

Reaver made a sad whining noise and moved forward to butt his head against her in a worried fashion. Eingana smiled and shooed him away; eventually he relented and trotted off to enjoy his bone in peace.

"You treat that dog better than you treat me," Gage complained as he followed her out into the central first-floor corridor towards the drawing room. "Why do you never give me anything _I_ want? Or even reward me for a task well done?"

"I give you food and board and I keep templars from executing your maleficar ass," Eingana reminded him. "_And_ I give you plenty of darkspawn to vent your kinky rages on."

"That comes with being a Warden," Gage snarked. "You've never to my knowledge actually given me anything I've _asked_ for."

"We're not in Tevinter, Gage. Slavery is illegal and so is rape." Eingana rubbed her eyes, trying to soothe the sting of weariness. "And the dog is a Mabari. You've spent enough time in Ferelden to know what that means. Have you _looked_ at the thing? If I went back on my word, he'd tear out my throat."

He wouldn't, really. Probably not. Although the others did seem to be under the distinct impression that Reaver was a dog-version of Hawke, so maybe he would. It was much more likely he would instead do something almost equally unpleasant, though perhaps not quite as physically harmful, involving solid excretions.

Eingana saw no need to point this out verbally.

In any case, the moment she finished speaking, a few affirmative barks resounded from an unseen room some distance away, quickly followed by a low, barely-audible growl. Gage rolled his eyes in irritation.

"And what about me?" the mage demanded. "If you went back on your word to me-"

"When have I ever gone back on my word to _anyone_?"

Gage ignored her. "I'd do much, _much_ worse than tear out your throat and I would draw it out over a considerable period."

Eingana snorted. "Oh, Gage. No you wouldn't." She paused and turned to face him, reaching out to stroke a gloved finger down his angular jaw. Then she gripped him by the chin.

"You know very well who's in charge, here," Eingana said softly, "as well as the consequences of even _attempted_ disobedience."

Gage stared at her with his lip curled in distaste, but after about ten seconds of motionless staring contest in which Eingana's steely gaze never so much as wavered, he grimaced and averted his eyes.

"That's what I thought," Eingana murmured. She patted him condescendingly on the cheek and gestured with her head as she resumed walking. "Now come on."

Gage followed her obediently, golden eyes burning a hole into the back of her neck. Slowly, the corners of his mouth curved upwards in an ominous sneer.

**ασυνέχεια**

Isabela stared at Varric.

Varric stared at Isabela.

Casually, Isabela reached out and took a dainty sip from her drink.

Eyes never leaving the pirates', Varric picked up his mug and took a swig of ale.

The small dining room was utterly silent but for the murmur of voices and the soft music of silver bowls in the nearby drawing room. Tension simmered in the air between the two opponents, the air of culminating anticipation such that it would have been palpable even to any observers should they have chosen that moment to enter the room.

"Reveal," Isabela intoned, and at once both of them snapped their cards down on the table. Varric immediately threw up his hands and groaned with disgust.

"This is _ridiculous_. Why! _Why_ do I keep playing with you? Why do I never learn?"

"How many times do I have to tell you, Varric?" Isabela said cheerfully. "I cheat."

"But I watch you like a hawk!" Varric groused. "Like _Hawke_, even! How many years has it been? I've never seen you do it. Ever! Not once!"

"And you never will," Isabela said with a wink. She held out her hand and rubbed her fingers together. "Pay up."

Varric made an impatient noise and waved his hand dismissively at her. "I don't have enough coin on me at the moment. Remind me later – I'm sure you'll remember how much to add to my tab," he said, affecting sullenness.

"Don't think you'll be off the hook if we all die tomorrow," Isabela said severely. "I will hunt you down across the entire Void if I have to and _make_ you buy me dinner."

Varric looked scandalized. "My dear Rivaini! How dare you even suggest I would end up in such a place as the Void? I am bound for the Maker's side. I am practically a martyr already."

Isabela burst into incredulous laughter and Varric grinned at her roguishly.

"Oh, Varric," Isabela gasped, brushing tears of mirth from her eye. "Don't ever change."

She looked over at the dwarf in time to see the amusement abruptly slide from his face.

"What?" Isabela asked, turning around to see what Varric was looking at. It was Cullen, standing in the doorway behind her. "...Oh."

"Lady Isabela," Cullen said haltingly. Varric snorted loudly at the ironic moniker, and Isabela tutted in mock offense.

"I was wondering if I might... erm... take you up on that offer to help me find something else to wear," Cullen went on. He shrugged, causing his armour to clank indicatively. "Enchanter Wynne assures me that my dream-self in the Fade will be fully equipped with whatever I imagine myself to need, regardless of what I'm wearing in this world... and... er..."

Isabela and Varric were both staring at him, Varric somewhat coldly and Isabela with sarcastic amusement. A flush crept up Cullen's neck.

"And I wish to speak to you," he finished with an apparent burst of courage. "Alone." He folded his arms determinedly.

Isabela sighed and looked around at Varric. He returned her regard with his eyebrows raised, as if to say, "You're asking _me_?"

"Alright," Isabela said, getting to her feet. "Hawke must have something that'll fit you. I'll help you look." She pointedly left out any acknowledgment of his other request.

"Thank you," Cullen said with obvious relief, not getting it.

Varric gave the templar a pitying look as Isabela gathered up the playing cards lain out on the table. She assembled the deck, ensuring all the cards were facing the same way, and through force of habit cut the deck in two and riffled it back together expertly.

"You should go to bed, Varric," Isabela said, setting the shuffled cards down in front of him. "It's late."

"Yes... I should," Varric replied. "As should you."

He glanced at Cullen. "Don't slit his throat yet, Rivaini. We need him."

"Now, _really_," Cullen protested. "I haven't-"

"Shut it, pet," Isabela cut him off. She winked at Varric and flashed past the indignant templar into the hallway, heading towards the common room. Cullen shot Varric an aggrieved look before hastening to catch up to her, armour clanking with his efforts to keep up with the pirate's purposeful stride.

He waited until they had reached the common room, safely out of earshot of the various others in the mansion, before speaking. "Isabela, I... you wouldn't really... slit my throat, would you?"

He sounded nervous. Isabela bit back a smile.

"Contrary to what you may have been told, ser knight, I don't go around slitting people's throats willy-nilly," she told him. She barely slowed down as she mounted the stairs that led up to the mezzanine. "I only do that when I have a damn good reason to."

"And... do you have such a reason in this case?" Cullen asked, thumping up the stairs behind her.

Isabela rolled her eyes and turned around to face him as she reached the top of the stairs, preventing the templar from getting higher than the last step. "Cullen, you know I'd normally be the very _last_ person to shy away from suggestive innuendo, but right now... just not right now, please? You and I both know what you're talking about, so speak plainly."

Silently, she chided herself for allowing circumstances to arise in which she was shying away from suggestive innuendo.

Cullen took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. "Very well. You're upset with me because I told Meredith about Anders being an apostate, and Hawke's involvement with him. Is that accurate?"

Yes, Isabela thought. Partly. But then, he'd summed up the situation quite nicely. What else _could_ there be? Some nebulous sense of personal betrayal she couldn't really pin down and which had no basis in fact or logical reasoning?

Isabela decided not to mention that bit. No need to confuse the poor man with her own foolish neuroses.

She said, "Close enough," and gestured for him to continue before resuming her course toward Hawke's bedchamber. Isabela was willing to listen to whatever attempt at an explanation the templar could come up with, but she wasn't about to make it easy for him.

Cullen exhaled in mixed relief and apprehension as he followed her across the mezzanine. "Right. Well, Meredith has suspected Anders for some time – since the qunari incident. By chance, I observed him healing one of the Champion's wounds out of the corner of my eye. This was during the battle outside the Keep, before he fought the Arishok. I had my own suspicions, unconfirmed until that moment."

"Mmhmm," Isabela acknowledged.

Hawke's door was ajar. The room beyond was cool and dark.

Isabela pushed the door open, releasing a breath of shifting air that carried with it a whiff of Hawke: blood and musk, tinged with a barely-detectable undercurrent of saffron. There was something else there, too – a hint of rain and far-off lightning, autumn wind and storm-damp leaves that reminded Isabela, somehow, of Anders.

Isabela felt a strange but irrepressible twinge of guilt for invading their private space like this, especially when they were so far away from her in so many different ways. It felt like a pall of disquiet settled over the pirate's body as she crept into the room, using the barely-adequate light from the mezzanine to find the tinderbox on the dresser and strike a flame.

The room hardly felt warmer after Isabela had lit a few candles and the lantern beside the bed. The rainy chill outside had thoroughly infiltrated the room through the window, left open a crack and with the curtains parted. The hearth contained only cold ashes, ignored since the onset of Kirkwall's humid summer.

Cullen stood in the doorway, fidgeting and glancing around, clearly also uncomfortable at disturbing the Champion's personal chambers. Isabela looked at him, raising her eyebrows, and taking the hint, he continued.

"Afterwards – well, you were there. You saw. The Arishok nearly gutted him and clawed half his face off. That Hawke stood up at all afterwards was a shock in itself. Meredith was certain an apostate must have healed him, and Anders was the only person close enough to Hawke to have done it. Meredith asked me later if I knew anything about the man, and I told her he was a mage."

Okay, Isabela thought. So he'd been doing his job. She supposed she could forgive him for that. Anders would have been found out eventually, given the nature of the spirit he hosted and the way it drove him to rectify what he saw as the injustice of the Circle, and on the other side the Knight-Commander's zeal in hunting down apostates.

Isabela went to the wardrobe and opened it carefully. The clothes within also smelled of blood and musk, but Cullen would just have to deal with that. Isabela tried to ignore the tingle of excitement that warmed her loins at the thought of Cullen in Hawke's clothes, smelling all sexy but still being himself, adorably awkward and shy...

Then she remembered how he'd reacted to her kissing him in the kitchen that morning. Perhaps he would be somewhat less shy. That was not a bad thing.

With a moderate effort of willpower, Isabela forced her mind away from where it was going. "And Meredith hasn't gone after Anders since then because...?" she prompted, eyeing the various articles of clothing stored in the wardrobe and wondering which of them might fit Cullen. She really needed to get a look at the breadth of his shoulders without the pauldrons in the way.

Abstractly, Isabela noted that for such a bloodthirsty, patently crazy guy, Hawke was startlingly neat.

"Because of the Champion, of course," Cullen answered. "He essentially disappeared for some time after the incident, but that didn't stop the city from revering him as their new hero. He has connections with the city guard, the Merchant's Guild, the nobility... Hawke has made many powerful friends since he came to Kirkwall. Apprehending an associate of his would have been impolitic."

"Right," Isabela said dryly. "Take your armour off."

Cullen blinked at the non sequitur, but obediently began to unbuckle the various straps and catches that held his armour together. Isabela picked up a pair of light trousers that would probably do well.

She felt an unwelcome surge of nerves when she turned to the templar, trying to estimate by eye how long his legs were. She had been so looking forward to getting him out of his armour. And she still was, very much so. Only... only... what? Bloody Andraste, why was this so difficult?

"You still haven't given me a satisfactory reason why you should have told Meredith about Hawke and Anders, ser knight," Isabela stated.

Cullen eyed her uncertainly as he set his gauntlets, vambraces and rerebraces down on Hawke's desk. He said nothing as he cast off his pauldrons and then gestured for her help in unclasping the halves of his cuirass.

Isabela rolled her eyes and made an exasperated huff, but she tossed the trousers she'd selected onto the bed and went over to Cullen.

Her fingers worked down his sides, unbuckling the catches that held breastplate and backplate together.

"I didn't mean to tell her," Cullen began, surprising the pirate. His voice was barely louder than a whisper. Isabela eyed the back of his head; Cullen's gaze was directed downward, his hands fumbling with the articulated faulds attached to his breastplate.

"Meredith knew that with his influence in Kirkwall would only grow after he was named Champion. She decided she would have to start taking Hawke's actions into account in her management of the mages. She wanted him... on her side, in case the Circle ever got out of control, or if..." He sighed. "If she needed something done, something she couldn't risk having the templars caught at, the city guard would not do, the Grand Cleric would not condone... And for that, she needed a way to ensure Hawke's _compliance_." He spoke the last word with forcibly repressed bitterness.

"Leverage," Isabela supplied quietly, and Cullen nodded. She couldn't really see his face, but she could hear the unvoiced vitriol in his voice.

Isabela opened the last of the catches and lifted away the templar's backplate. It amazed her how heavy it was – _well, it is a plate of solid steel, Isabela_ – and that was just one piece of the whole set that Cullen had been carrying around on his body for two sleepless days. The bugger was no slouch. Isabela set the backplate down on Hawke's desk chair with a relieved breath.

Cullen, meanwhile, had caught his breastplate as it fell forward and hefted it easily in one hand, turning it over to stare down at the Sword of Mercy blazing proudly on the front. He traced one finger down the engraved blade, his expression unreadable.

"Meredith asked me one day..." he said, his voice so quiet it was barely audible. Isabela approached him, staring into his gentle green eyes, tilting her head to hear him. Beneath his cuirass, Cullen wore a simple sleeveless cotton shirt, stained with sweat in a few places. The play of candlelight on the musculature of his arms, the stubble on his jaw, was strangely hypnotic.

"She knew I had had contact with the Champion on a few occasions... she asked me if I knew anything about his personal life. What had happened to the sister he arrived in Kirkwall with. How protective he was of his... his mother. Whether or not he had a lover..."

Abruptly, Cullen's face twisted in bitter despair. He tossed the templar breastplate to the floor; it landed with a harsh clatter. Isabela winced at the noise, surprised.

"The bitch," Cullen hissed with sudden venom. "The damned crazy _bitch_! She must have... but there's no way she could..."

Isabela stared at him in open-mouthed shock. She had never heard Cullen speak of another person in such terms. He was normally so quiet, so reserved, so polite... how long, Isabela wondered, had that resentment at Meredith been simmering beneath Cullen's calm, composed exterior?

The templar looked at her suddenly and seemed to remember that he wasn't alone. At once, his glower melted away.

"Pardon me," Cullen mumbled. "I, uh... well. Anyway. I told her... I told Meredith about Hawke and Anders. I think I must have known how she might well use the information at some point, given that she'd been talking about... leverage, and such." He looked away. "But I told her all the same."

Cullen leaned down to pick up the fallen breastplate. Isabela's eyes were drawn to the patch of soft hair poking out of his undershirt. She found herself wondering if he was ticklish.

"I wish I hadn't," Cullen finished softly.

He placed the breastplate on the chair with its other half and stretched his arms luxuriously above his head, twisting around to work out the tension in his muscles that had accumulated over two days of activity. Isabela watched the play of muscles in his shoulders and arms admiringly, not bothering to hide her lewd smile. The odour of unwashed male body was now emanating rather freely from the vicinity of Cullen's underarms, but Isabela found the mild rankness oddly exciting. She'd smelled much worse in her time at sea, when sailors sometimes went months at a time with nothing to bathe in but cold saltwater.

Cullen cracked his knuckles and began to unbuckle the chausses protecting his thighs, and only then seemed to notice Isabela staring at him. He promptly froze, and Isabela couldn't help chuckling at the terrified expression on his face. When she thought about it, her lustful gaze might easily have been misinterpreted as a piercing, hostile glare.

Her laughter put him at ease, and Isabela approached him, reaching out to run her hand appreciatively down his chest.

"Cullen," she said quietly, "I... forgive you."

Did she?

Well, by the way he'd described it, Meredith had practically browbeaten Cullen into the revelation. His remorse seemed genuine enough, though. And Hawke and Anders would have to be told that Meredith knew about them, provided they survived the coming conflict. Cullen could do that, and if Hawke smacked him around a bit, well, he deserved it. As for Isabela...

Yes, Isabela realized. She _had_ forgiven him, and it was like a weight lifted from her own chest. It was a bizarre and uncomfortably intimate emotion, but there it was.

Cullen's face broke into a relieved grin. "Thank you," he mumbled. "I shall endeavor to deserve your forgiveness, Lady Isabela."

Isabela rolled her eyes at the title, but she was smiling too. She sidled around behind him, trailing her fingers enticingly along the hint of bare skin between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of the shorts he wore beneath his chausses. Cullen seemed to stop breathing for a moment.

"Get the rest of your armour off, pet, and we'll see if you can't find something more comfortable to slip into," Isabela said softly, lips very near his ear. She could almost feel the tension rippling through Cullen's body, but it was a good kind of tension this time, an eager anticipation. He nodded his assent.

Isabela went back to the wardrobe, watching the templar out of the corner of her eye, and selected a comfortably worn short-sleeved shirt. She still felt kind of bad at raiding Hawke's wardrobe while he was trapped and suffering in his own mind, but it was for a good cause – or so she tried to convince herself. If Cullen was uncomfortable and stressed out, he wouldn't be much help to them in the Fade, fighting the wyrd, would he?

Right, and her desire to get the templar out of his armour had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she had essentially already seduced him. Of course not.

But then, sex was good for people. It worked off stress and tension, left them refreshed and alert. Isabela and Cullen would both 'perform' more efficiently in battle tomorrow if they had sex tonight. She snorted at her own mental pun. Yes, that was a good enough reason. She would apologize to Hawke after they saved him, and he would understand.

Cullen glanced around as he set down the last pieces of his armour at the foot of the desk. He sniffed inquisitively, and Isabela smiled.

Cullen looked at her. "Does it... smell like blood in here?" he asked uncertainly.

"That would be Hawke," Isabela informed him.

Cullen stared at her, baffled. "What?"

"Hawke," Isabela repeated with a giggle. "Have you never been close to the man? He smells like blood. All the time. It's just the way he is."

Cullen looked confused for a moment, but after a moment he nodded thoughtfully.

"Now that you mention it..." he muttered. Isabela nodded too, amused.

"I think it might have something to do with... er... dragons?" she suggested. "And possibly blood magic."

Cullen's gaze snapped back to her. "What? Blood magic?"

"Don't worry, it's not contagious," Isabela said soothingly. She shifted her weight to her other foot and stood with one hand on her hip, eyeing him up and down. Cullen watched her watching him and immediately began to blush, apparently only then remembering that he had stripped down to his underclothes.

"Well now, Knight-Captain," Isabela said teasingly as she approached him, "now that I've finally got you all alone and out of your armour..."

"Isabela," Cullen murmured, reaching out to take her hands as she neared him. "Before we – I mean, before anything happens-"

"What?" Isabela asked, not liking where this was going.

"I was wondering if you might... indulge me in a request."

Isabela rolled her eyes and smiled archly. "Oh... _this_ should be good. What is it, pet?"

Cullen waited until she was looking at him again, and then said seriously, "Stay out the Fade tomorrow."

"What?" Isabela exclaimed, stunned. She had been expecting – hoping, even – that his request would involve some kind of highly unusual sexual kink. Something she might expect from someone who had been part of a repressive religious order most of his life, and which would enable her to enjoy his delightfully well-built body in an interesting and unexpected fashion. Not this... this... whatever in the Void _this_ was.

"What are you talking about, man?" Isabela demanded. "Hawke and Anders are trapped in the Fade. With a demon. A big nasty demon that wants to eat their minds and them come back and horribly kill us all. They need me – _us_, they need _us_, and that includes me. I can't... I can't just not..."

What was she doing, Isabela wondered with a curious numbness. Here was someone offering her the chance to gracefully back out of a difficult and dangerous battle, her part in which would almost certainly end in death, and she was refusing.

"Isabela, please," Cullen said imploringly, running his hands up her arms. "The thought of you coming to harm-"

_Oh no,_ Isabela thought, panicking. _He did not just go there._

"I can't stand it," he whispered.

_He did. He went there._

"Stop," Isabela breathed. "Don't, Cullen. Just... please, don't."

He looked at her, crestfallen, and Isabela could have kicked herself. What was the matter with her? No – not her, _him_, what was the matter with _him_? Bringing feelings into this, _now_ of all times? When after tomorrow morning, she might be dead, and _he_ might be dead...

And by the frigid terror that shocked through her at that notion, Isabela knew, without a doubt, that it was already too late. They were lost.

"Maker _damn_ you, man!" Isabela gasped, and she kissed him hard.

He made a muffled noise of surprise, deep in his throat, and the pleased growl that followed inflamed her lust past any semblance of reason that yet persisted. She clutched at his back, their tongues intertwined, and she felt his hands sliding over her butt and between her thighs. Somehow, locked together everywhere they could reach, they managed to make to the bed.

**ασυνέχεια**

When Eingana entered the drawing room, Wynne was still in her position on the couch, bent over the table and working intently on a sigil. It was if she had never moved since that morning, so many hours ago. Her face was pale and drawn with exhaustion, the papery wrinkles and age spots of her skin somehow more pronounced in the dim, warm light of the candles set around the room. Her snow-white hair seemed stringy and insubstantial, her hands almost skeletal. Still, Wynne's grip on the pen she was using was steady, and her clear eyes never wavered from the careful lines she was engraving.

"Wynne," Eingana said softly as she sat down next to the enchanter. "You need to go to bed. It's very late."

"I know, my dear," Wynne murmured, not looking up from her work. "This sigil is the last I must complete... and I am nearly finished."

Eingana nodded and remained respectfully silent, deciding it was better to let Wynne finish if she was determined enough to have stayed up so late rather than delay her progress with well-meaning questions.

Finally Wynne carved a final careful flourish at the edge of the intricate sigil and set the vellum down with a long, relieved sigh. She added it to the sheaf already completed, sitting on the table next to the stack of six enchanted silver bowls.

"Do we really need all those sigils?" Eingana asked lightly. "Surely just the one is enough to get the intent across?"

Wynne smiled. "I wish it were that simple, but no. Every single one will be needed to ensure the ritual proceeds as it must, minimizing all known risks as much as possible. It would not do, for instance, to send us all into the Fade and then trap us there permanently, whether or not we succeed in freeing Michael from the wyrd."

"No," Eingana admitted. "That would not do."

"One of these days," Wynne remarked, "some brilliant young enchanter will revolutionize the Fade ritual and drastically reduce the amount of work or lyrium it requires... or perhaps even both at once. We can only hope."

She took a deep, careful breath and eyed the stack of sigils almost wistfully. Eingana felt uneasy seeing that pensive, far-away look in Wynne's eyes. She had seen it only once before – in Denerim, while the city burned around them at the touch of the darkspawn horde, moments before she had rushed off to battle the archdemon and Wynne had departed to lead the defending mages elsewhere.

Eingana reached out and drew Wynne into a one-armed, sideways hug. "I worry about you, sometimes," she admitted quietly. "You look so... tired."

Wynne returned the lopsided embrace and rubbed Eingana's arm reassuringly. "I imagine I must," she replied. "But you mustn't concern yourself with me, my dear. There are much larger things for you to worry about."

"Always the same thing," Eingana said with fond, halfhearted annoyance. "Lectures about the importance of being a Grey Warden... courage, self-sacrifice, detachment...etcetera, etcetera."

"Nothing's changed," Wynne pointed out. "Admittedly, without the looming menace of an archdemon, the threat the Grey Wardens fight to contain seems much less... present. That does not mean it is any less real."

"I know that," Eingana said. "But does that mean I shouldn't be concerned for an old friend? Being a Grey Warden, facing the dangers nobody else can, making the hard decisions and all that – it doesn't mean I can't care about people. Remember _that_ conversation?"

"Only too well," Wynne laughed. "And I do realize what you mean. I know you cannot stop feeling just because it's inconvenient, Eingana, but I mean it when I say you need not feel for me. I was sure my time was nearly up years ago, during the Blight... nobody is more surprised than I that I have lasted this long, believe me! But the fact remains that I should have died in the Circle Tower that day, and it is only through the benevolent power of Faith that I am still of this world. I told you then that the spirit's power is not inexhaustible, and I sense its limit is fast approaching."

Eingana turned Wynne to hug her with both arms and buried her face in the elderly mage's shoulder. A shining tear dripped helplessly from beneath one eyelid.

"Wynne," Eingana whispered. "I don't want you to..."

"Shhh, my dear," Wynne soothed. "We've been through this."

"Please," Eingana cried. "You know better than anyone that I must always be strong. Allow me this one moment of weakness."

Wynne closed her eyes and said nothing. Eingana interpreted her silence, correctly, as assent. She said nothing for a few moments, gathering her thoughts.

"I've told you about Adaia, haven't I?" Eingana mumbled against Wynne's shoulder. "Humans killed her, when I was sixteen... I was almost glad, in a way, when I thought about it a long time afterwards."

Eingana sighed heavily and went on, "I mean, at least... at least she never saw what happened to her home during the Blight. She died defending her people against their oppressors, and she never had to witness what happened to the alienage, or to Valendrian or the _vhenadahl_ or... or my father."

Eingana let out a soft hiccup, and Wynne rubbed her back, murmuring comforting words into her long, pointed ear.

"You were like a mother to me during the Blight," Eingana whispered, her voice so quiet it was barely audible. "I've never thanked you for that. You remind me of Adaia. I think... she would have liked you, Wynne."

"No thanks necessary," Wynne replied. "I needed you as much as you needed me, child. I am so very, very proud of you, as I have no doubt Adaia would have been."

The Warden-Commander let out a muffled sob and hugged the mage tightly. A few more tears slipped down her cheeks. Wynne returned her embrace with bittersweet fondness. In a distant, closed-off area of her mind, her thoughts wandered, as they so often did, to the boy she had given birth to so many years ago, and what might have become of him.

"You need not fear for me," Wynne said after a time. "Wherever I will end up, I will know no pain."

"But how can you _know_ that?" Eingana asked. "If anyone deserves to be taken to the Maker's side, it is you, Wynne. But... I mean..."

Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

"How can you be so sure?" she asked eventually in a small, quiet voice. What she left unvoiced, but not unheard, was a slightly different question: _How can _I_ be so sure?_

"You must have faith, my dear," Wynne answered, and Eingana sighed.

**ασυνέχεια**

The bedroom Aveline and Donnic shared, one of many guest rooms in the Hawke estate, was quiet and dark. The window was closed and warded against the noises and predatory influences outside. Though the chamber was sparsely furnished, it was still more luxurious than what both Aveline and Donnic were accustomed to.

Aveline had been uncomfortable at first, unused to the softness of the bed, the smell of fresh linens and vague incense unsullied by a barracks full of sweaty, grimy men and women. Her instinct in the unfamiliar surroundings was to stay awake and alert. For some time Aveline lay with her eyes wide open, flaming orange hair spread on the pillow around her head, unable to shake her worry about what the dawn would bring and release the tension coiled in her body.

Eventually, with soft touches and whispered words, Donnic convinced her that she needed to sleep. He treasured these moments in-between: between day and night, between waking and sleeping. It was seemingly only here, in these interstitial times, that his wife allowed herself to become vulnerable and to shed the mantle of Captain of the Guard. Here she was simply Aveline, a strong, beautiful woman, and the woman he loved.

Even in the relaxed mental state approaching sleep, however, Donnic was unable to rid himself of concerns of his own. He would not be following Aveline into the Fade to fight the wyrd the following morning. There were not enough mages on hand to make that possible, and she was a better fighter than he – Donnic had no trouble admitting it. There was not much he could do other than remain at the mansion and protect the mages while they conducted their ritual from whatever forces might threaten them.

Still, he worried.

"Love," Donnic murmured, on the edge of blissful unconsciousness.

"Mmm."

"Promise me something."

"What?" Aveline asked, sounding slightly more awake.

"Promise me..." Donnic turned his face away from his pillow so his voice wouldn't be as muffled. "Promise me you won't sacrifice yourself needlessly."

Aveline stirred. "Donnic-"

"No, listen," Donnic said. "I know you, Aveline, and I love you, but sometimes... sometimes you are so stubborn it makes my gums bleed."

"Oh," Aveline muttered, affronted. "How charming of you to say so, Donnic."

"I mean that in a good way, love," Donnic clarified. Aveline snorted. "You're always putting others before yourself. You've built a life out of it. You are the reason so many people are alive today."

Aveline was silent for a long time. Donnic tried to estimate the number of lives his wife had saved, whether directly or indirectly. Thousands? At least.

Donnic had just begun to think Aveline might have fallen asleep when she spoke.

"That may be," she whispered. "But how many more have I failed to keep alive?"

"You mustn't focus on them, love," Donnic said with quiet emphasis. "Do not pity the dead. _You_ are as important as they are. You must keep _yourself_ alive first, or you can save no one."

Aveline said nothing.

"Please," Donnic urged. "Promise me, Aveline. Promise me you won't take unnecessary risks to save someone. Do it for me."

Aveline sighed. "I promise," she said.

Donnic felt a weight of relief lift from his chest. He settled comfortably against his wife's body, unable to voice his gladness at her assent.

Donnic leaned over to kiss Aveline gently, affectionately.

"Thank you," he murmured. He would be able to sleep peacefully now, he thought.

In the warmth of the darkness between them, their hands intertwined.

**ασυνέχεια**

The common room was suffused in the gloom of deep midnight. A small, melancholy fire crackled in the hearth, barely burning with sufficient intensity to light the staircase and ward off the night's damp chill, seeping into the mansion through broken windows.

The mezzanine was darker still. Several of the chambers leading off of it and the connecting corridor were occupied by the estate's restless guests, but only a few razor strips of brightness broke the darkness from beneath closed doors. Even those rooms remained lit only because the people who intended to use them had not yet retired, despite the lateness of the hour.

Fenris mounted the stairs that led up to the mezzanine with sullen weariness. He would have much preferred to return to his own mansion for the night; to sleep in familiar surroundings he was sure were secure against infiltration and get the rest he needed for the upcoming battle. The elf knew he was being irrational – there were few places in Kirkwall more secure than the Hawke estate, after all, especially right now. Then there was the fact that while Hightown had never exactly been safe to cross at night by oneself, it was substantially less so in the current circumstances. And he would have had to return here at dawn for the ritual besides.

Yes, the reasons to make the journey to his own estate were few and flimsy. Still, Fenris was bothered. The Champion's mansion might have been well-secured against external threats, but that was far from the same thing as it being safe.

"Ah... there you are."

Case in point: Gage's golden eyes glinted at him from the shadows on the mezzanine where he had been lurking – waiting, it seemed, for Fenris to appear. The elf glared back as he crested the staircase, daring the mage to speak. He did.

"The elf with the beautiful markings... I don't believe I've yet had the pleasure of your conversation."

Evidently, Gage was put off not in the slightest by Fenris's surly gaze. His smile might have been meant to be friendly, but in the inadequate glow from the common room below it came across as more of a demonic leer.

"We have nothing to say to one another, blood mage," Fenris spat. He made to continue across the mezzanine to his chosen room, some distance down the corridor.

"But we do," Gage insisted. He inserted himself smoothly into Fenris's path, forcing the elf to choose between stopping and diverting around him. "There is _much_ we can say to one another... and do, for that matter." He arched one eyebrow and smirked lewdly.

Fenris scowled as he came to a halt. He clenched his fists threateningly. "If you even _try_ to touch me, mage, I shall-"

"What?" Gage snarked. "Kill me? You would risk the Warden-Commander's ire, and the Champion's life. Not to mention that of his lover, and all those _poor_ innocents in the city who will fall to the wyrd if I cannot lend my magic to the ritual which is so instrumental to its defeat."

His smug tone made it clear that he cared about the people of Kirkwall about as much as he cared about the opinion of Knight-Commander Meredith. Unfortunately for Fenris, Gage was still right. He couldn't kill him.

"What do you want?" Fenris demanded with a growl of annoyance.

"Right now – merely to talk," Gage answered with unconvincing charm. He prowled around the glowering elf, eyes traveling intently over his body, his battered armour, and especially the faintly glowing lines of lyrium branded into his skin. Fenris turned to keep him in sight, watching his predatory movements with sharp, barely-suppressed hostility.

"Such a quantity of lyrium, and such a high grade," Gage commented softly. He leaned forward and inhaled deeply. His eyes drifted half-closed and a blissful expression crossed his face. "You smell so... so... _wonderful_. Like magic, and hate, and rage..."

"Enough of this foulness," Fenris snapped. "I am not a toy for your amusement, blood mage. I suffer your presence only for the reasons you indicated – because I respect Eingana and because you are needed alive if there is to be a chance at saving Hawke. Either make some point worth my time or get _out_ of my way."

Gage gave him a mocking smile. "Pardon me, my good man. I am merely curious. Let me see, then. Shall I guess... Epimachus?"

At Fenris's blank look, he added, "Or perhaps Maximian?"

Fenris's brow furrowed in suspicious confusion.

"No?" Gage's smirk became decidedly nasty. "Andronicus, then? Such a brutal man... mmm." His eyes closed and he shuddered, apparently in fond reminiscence. Fenris just glared at him.

Gage opened his eyes. "Still not right? Hmm... Vetranio? Ausonius? No... Vespasian? Danarius?"

Fenris jerked and stepped forward, lifting one hand aggressively. Gage snickered.

"Of course! I should have known... should have recognized his handiwork. That cagey old bastard complained of his lost little wolf ever so bitterly. I can't believe I didn't think of him sooner. A 'misplaced masterpiece,' he said. And here you are! How _right_ he was – your chains are broken, after all, but are you truly free?"

Fenris was on the verge of grabbing Gage by the throat, but at those last words he abruptly froze where he was. The elf stared, mouth slightly open, his face ashen. Gage laughed at him.

"He wants you back, very badly," the mage observed with a hint of snide triumph in his voice. "As I'm sure you realize. You'd best be on your guard, elf – I suspect your former master will stop at nothing to reclaim what he sees as his property. And he has more than just the power of _blood_ at his disposal, after all," he taunted, insinuatingly.

"If you know something about Danarius's plans, mage, either tell me what it is or speak no more of that fiend," Fenris muttered. He'd backed off his menacing posture, and seemed to be having a harder time meeting Gage's eyes. The mage watched him curiously, wondering just what exactly it was that he had said to provoke this sudden, uncharacteristic subdual.

"As you wish," Gage said indulgently. "More to my point... I'm told you have an intense and deep-seated hatred of mages, and blood mages in particular. Judging by your reaction to the mention of magister Danarius, am I correct in my presumption that those gorgeous brands all over your body form part of the reason for this?"

"Yes," Fenris ground out. "And I am rapidly growing tired of this discussion, _mage_." He slammed a contemptuous emphasis on the last word to ensure Gage had no illusions about the intensity of his hatred of mages. "I suggest you get to the point before I lose my temper and rip your heart from your chest, consequences be damned."

"Mmm." Gage ran his tongue slowly along his teeth, apparently aroused by the idea. He rolled his head around on his shoulders and sidled around the elf again, trailing his hand through the air just close enough to Fenris to make his skin crawl. A drifting flare followed Gage's hand along the elf's lyrium brands in reaction to the close proximity of such a deep mana well.

"You clearly have a great deal of frustration pent up within you," Gage murmured. "Doubtless stemming from a variety of sources... but I, as luck would have it, happen to be not only a blood mage, but also from Tevinter and a former slave owner. I represent such a significant fulcrum of your ire that you must be itching at this very moment to get your hands around my neck and squeeze the life from my body. Am I wrong?"

The manner in which Fenris was flexing his hands and glowering at the mage made it clear that Gage was not wrong.

"So you hold within you this raging storm of frustration and rage," Gage went on smoothly. "Why not take it out on me?"

Fenris blinked. "_What_ did you say?"

"You heard me," Gage purred. "Take it out on me. _Vent_ your frustrations. Give _voice_ to your rage. Let it loose... and let _me_ be the focus of your wrath."

Fenris stared at him, shock and disgust etched plainly across his angular face. His hands opened and closed in agitation.

Gage stared right back at Fenris, licking his lips suggestively.

"I could please you," the mage murmured as he wandered around Fenris's back, leaning in so his breath warmed the elf's neck. "I'll let you do anything you want to me, short of killing me. You would enjoy it very much. And..."

Gage shivered lustfully, eyeing the lyrium brands etched into Fenris's skin.

"So would I," he finished. He leaned down and pressed his lips very lightly against the brand that arced across the back of Fenris's neck.

The elf snapped into motion with blinding speed, spinning around and slamming Gage hard against the wall. His gauntleted hand was locked around the mage's neck, his face twisted with revulsion. To his surprise, however, the noise Gage made was not a grunt pain or even surprise, but a deep rumble of pleasure. He stared at his attacker, eyes wide, lips parted slightly, panting.

"Yes," Gage breathed. "Like that. See? Didn't that feel good? Don't you want to do it again, and harder? Let yourself go, Fenris. Let loose the beast within... let it sink its teeth into me, as you deny it the opportunity to do everywhere but in combat. It will be such a sweet release for us both. Don't pretend you don't want to."

Fenris recoiled, releasing him, disgusted and more than a little afraid of the naked lust in Gage's eyes. The mage watched him eagerly, waiting for his answer.

Fenris shook his head, opening his mouth to speak and then closing it again. He kept shaking his head, apparently at a loss for words.

"I..." he said finally, unable to meet Gage's eyes. Gage waited, nearly trembling with excitement.

"Go to bed, cretin," Fenris said roughly, and he stalked away. The shadows swallowed him, and a few moments later the slam of a door rippled out through the darkness.

Gage straightened from where Fenris had thrown him against the wall. He frowned angrily, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

Time passed.

A floorboard creaking on the stairs behind him made Gage turn his head. Velanna reached the top of the staircase and walked haughtily past him. She shot him a withering look, and Gage sneered back.

Velanna soon vanished in the shadows of the hallway that led off the mezzanine, deeper into the mansion. A barely-audible breath of air shifted as a door budged open. The still air around Gage remained otherwise silent but for the vague, listless crackle of the fireplace.

Gage folded his arms and waited.

After a minute or two, Merrill appeared in the common room below him. She mounted the stairs, yawning and rubbing her eyes in exhaustion.

Gage flashed the Dalish elf a charming smile. "Aha... my fellow blood mage," he said courteously. "How does-"

"Don't even think about it, shem," Merrill said harshly. She walked right past him without looking at him. "Keep your hands and your _eyes_ away from me."

She moved on, into the gloom.

Gage made an angry, but entirely silent snarl at her back as Merrill disappeared from view. A door clicked shut.

The irritated mage didn't turn around at the sound of an amused snort behind him. His eyes narrowed.

"Warden-Commander," Gage growled. "Still awake?"

The top of Eingana's head barely came up to Gage's shoulder. Still, she was coolly unafraid of him as she draped a comradely arm around his shoulder. He stood stiffly, ignoring her.

"Poor Gage," Eingana murmured. "Shot down and... shot _down_. You must be so very frustrated, no?"

Gage's only response was an angry, wordless hiss. He determinedly avoided the elf's mocking gaze, glaring at the far wall.

That was, until she moved forward, fingers sliding down his arm to take his hand.

Eingana turned around, eyeing him as she walked backwards, trying to lead him toward her chamber. Gage stared at her mistrustfully and resisted being pulled forward, clearly not quite trusting her.

Eingana smirked. "Not up for it, Gage? Still in the mood for some firmer meat, perhaps of the male persuasion? I understand."

She made to let go of his hand. Gage caught her wrist in his long, powerful fingers before she could do so.

Eingana's eyes narrowed. With a deft twist of her wrist, she freed herself from his grip.

"You know the rules," Eingana said softly, turning towards the one doorway remaining open on the mezzanine. "Your choice."

Gage's eyes traveled down her back. Eingana proceeded delicately to the door and slipped past it into the darkness beyond.

Gage's smile was thin and utterly without humour. He followed her without a word.

**ασυνέχεια**

Isabela woke in the pre-dawn twilight at a gentle touch on her shoulder. Wynne was standing next to the bed, leaning over her.

"Wake up, my dear. It's time."

Isabela mumbled acknowledgement and Wynne went around to the other side of the bed to wake Cullen. Isabela stretched her arms, her legs, and back, twisting around to work the softness of sleep out of her body. She didn't exactly feel rested, but she felt alert. Isabela wondered how important that would be, since she was technically going right back to sleep very soon anyway. The thought sent a nervous jolt of energy through her.

_It's time_.

Cullen grunted his displeasure but made no other complaint at Wynne's soft words. He sat up in Hawke's bed, supporting himself with one arm while he rubbed his forehead. Isabela took the opportunity to admire the powerful musculature of his chest and arms. She hadn't been wrong about him at all, the pirate thought with a wistful smile. He was gorgeous, better than she'd imagined, and so flexible. And _skillful_. Isabela felt a little tingle at the memory, and she briefly considered... but no. There really wasn't time.

Seeing that both pirate and templar were awake, Wynne left the room, no doubt to rouse the others. Isabela noted with some bemusement that the elderly mage had shown no surprise at seeing her in the same bed as Cullen, let alone the fact that it was Hawke's bed, and that she had awakened the two of them without so much as a hint of a disapproving frown. Isabela's opinion of the enchanter went up several notches.

"Time, then," Cullen muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

Isabela nodded grimly. "Time."

By unspoken agreement, they refrained from speaking of their night together, or the related issues that had cropped up. Isabela was far from ready to deal with that just yet, not when they were about to charge off into the battle of their lives. Cullen seemed willing to follow her lead on the matter; she caught him watching her fondly at her a few times, but at her questioning look he just smiled and looked away.

Isabela donned her tunic and thigh-high boots as Cullen performed his own series of morning stretches, loosening his muscles and cracking various joints the way he might have were he about to don his templar armour.

"You don't need your armour for the ritual, right?" Isabela asked, watching him standing next to the bed in his shorts, twisting his torso back and forth.

"No," Cullen answered. "I'd much rather wear something... lighter. My dream-self will be sufficiently armoured to meet whatever challenges we will face, and lying on the floor in heavy plate is rarely a good idea. I might not be able to get back up again. Not without help, at least."

Isabela tossed him the trousers and shirt she'd selected last night and eyed the wardrobe speculatively. "You want a pair of Hawke's smalls?" the pirate asked. "Yours must be a bit... manky, no?"

Cullen scratched his head and gave her an uncomfortable half-smile. "I, er... don't think he'd appreciate that much, do you?"

"Maybe not," Isabela admitted. "_I_ would, though." She winked.

"Thank you," Cullen said dryly. "I'll make do."

Isabela tried not to be too disappointed. She consoled herself with the fact that Hawke probably would _not_ much appreciate any man other than Anders wearing his shorts.

Or... maybe he would find it arousing. Who knew? The man was insane and about as predictable as the sea.

Isabela felt a sudden rush of affection for the Champion in whose bed she had debauched one of the stoic templars. She resolved to do whatever was asked of her, whatever was necessary, to save Hawke and Anders from the creature that had taken them. No matter what.

They met the others downstairs in the larger dining room for a quick breakfast of bread, cheese, and orange juice. Bodahn and Sandal were awake, having prepared everything with expediency in mind. The mood was subdued and tense; few words were exchanged.

Aveline and Donnic were holding a whispered conversation, apparently not wanting to disturb the hushed atmosphere. Brennan lingered nearby, listening. Aveline appeared to be trying to give them last-minute instructions, while Donnic looked annoyed.

The Guard-Captain, Isabela noted with some amusement, had opted to don her heavy plate for the ritual, despite the fact that Wynne must have told her lighter, more comfortable clothing would suffice. Aveline wasn't about to take her word for it, obviously.

Cullen seemed quite happy in his borrowed clothes, though the worn short-sleeved shirt was a little too big for him. The Hawke crest embroidered on the chest made it fairly obvious where he'd found them. Isabela noticed a few amused glances directed at the unarmoured templar, but if Cullen noticed any of them, he showed no sign.

Merrill seemed to have struck up a friendship of sorts with Velanna, which was unsurprising given their shared heritage. Isabela wasn't quite sure what to make of the venomous glares Velanna and Gage were shooting at each other, however.

At one point, the blood mage turned his unsettling golden gaze on Isabela. She glared back as best she could for as long as she could stand to make eye contact with the creepy bastard. She finally looked away; when she glanced back a moment later, Gage's eyes had moved on to Cullen, and he was sneering.

Isabela felt a hot clench of inexplicable discomfort deep in her gut. What was _with_ that guy? Always staring at people, coming on to them inappropriately, flaunting the fact that he was blood mage...

At least Cullen was sneering disdainfully right back, Isabela noticed with a little burst of pride. _Give it to 'em, tiger,_ she thought.

Wynne and Fenris, meanwhile, were silent, focused on their food. Wynne seemed deep in thought, her eyes distant. She missed the bread she was trying to pick up a few times through what seemed like sheer inattention. Isabela noticed, and noticed Fenris and Aveline also noticing, but neither said anything so Isabela remained silent as well.

Varric seemed to be asking Eingana in a quiet voice about the darkspawn mages that were to help Gage and Velanna with the ritual. Isabela started to listen, her curiosity piqued.

"Don't they need to eat?" Varric was asking. He held up a hunk of bread, eyeing it dubiously as if uncertain it was really bread. "I mean, I would offer them something out of gratitude for their help, if I owned this estate and the food was mine to offer... and if I thought they would be tempted... and if they weren't terrifying monsters."

Eingana snorted. She took the bread from Varric's hand and slashed it apart easily with one of her daggers, produced from some unknown recess. She picked up a butter knife and proceeded to butter one of the halves before handing it calmly back to the dwarf. "Don't stress yourself over it, Varric. They'll find their own sustenance."

"That's hardly reassuring," Varric said under his breath, biting into the bread. Privately, Isabela agreed.

"That won't include human flesh," Eingana elaborated. "Or elven flesh, or dwarven flesh. As far as I know. The Architect claims his people have their own food sources underground, when they're not Blighting around with an archdemon and raping the surface world. They have everything they need, not to worry."

That was good to know, Isabela thought.

When everyone had eaten their fill, Bodahn moved in to begin clearing the table. Anxiously, he wished them luck; Eingana and Wynne hugged him. Impulsively, Isabela did too, and Merrill followed suit. The dwarf patted her back worriedly, his eyes distracted.

They filed through the gloomy, quiet mansion back to the common room. Reaver was waiting for them there, wagging his stubby tail and looking at them soulfully.

"You can't come with us, boy," Aveline said gently. "You know that."

Reaver whined. He butted up against Aveline as if imploring her to change her mind. Aveline gave him an affectionate rub on the head.

Eingana produced a lamb bone from somewhere on her person and held it out to Reaver. To Isabela's surprise, the Mabari didn't instantly leap for the proffered treat. Instead, he stared at it and then up at Eingana suspiciously.

The Warden-Commander let out a grunt and knelt down to wrap her arms around the dog.

"If we don't come back," she whispered, "Bodahn has the key."

Reaver woofed softly and licked her face, then bowed his head down to snatch the lamb bone from her hand. He straightened and backed away, staring at them all seriously with the bone clamped between his teeth.

"Wish us luck, Reaver," Isabela said warmly. She rather hoped this wasn't the last time she would see the massive dog. And that he would be reunited with his master.

Reaver managed to bark at her without dropping his bone, which was impressive. Isabela grinned.

Eingana led the way to the cellar door, which already stood ominously ajar in what Isabela thought was an apt bit of real-world foreshadowing. Varric had told her what that word meant once, long ago. Or it seemed like it had been long time ago. Really, it couldn't have been more than a year, because it had been just a day or so before the Arishok's attempt to take over the city and her flight with the Tome of Koslun. And wasn't _that_ a fun memory to be thinking of at a time like this.

Isabela was grateful that the gas lamps in the estate's cellars had finally been lit, making the long corridors that led to the ritual area seem much less chokingly small and cramped. The effect was somewhat ruined, however, by the awful stench of something rotten that grew progressively stronger the closer they traveled to the room chosen for the ritual.

She wasn't the only one who had noticed it. Merrill was wrinkling her nose; Aveline had a gauntleted hand over her face.

"Maker's mercy, what is that _smell_?" Cullen finally asked, also covering his nose and looking revolted.

"That would be the taint," Gage answered him with a jeering edge in his voice. "You may remember that four of the six mages involved in this ritual are darkspawn. You need not worry about contracting the taint – that has been seen to – but I'm sorry to say there's nothing that can be done about the smell."

Despite his words, he didn't sound sorry at all, the smug bastard.

"Uh huh," Cullen grunted. "Who are these darkspawn, if I may ask?"

"The Architect will be leading the ritual," Eingana spoke up before Gage could.

"The darkspawn sorcerer?" Aveline cut in. "Is that wise? Would not one of-"

"It's for the best," Eingana interrupted. "He is the most powerful and the most experienced. He knows quite well what he's doing, and he will not allow any of us to come to harm. I trust him."

"As do I," Velanna offered. Aveline seemed satisfied. Isabela figured that would have to be good enough for her, too. She noticed a look of relief on some of the others' faces as well.

"The other darkspawn are among the most powerful of the Architect's Disciples," Eingana went on. "They are emissaries, all Awakened. I believe one of them is a genlock and the other two are hurlocks. The genlock calls itself the Thaumaturge. The hurlocks are the Isolated and the Embittered."

"They choose their own names?" Fenris asked her curiously, and Eingana nodded.

"They sound like such charming guys," Isabela piped up. "'The Embittered.' 'The Isolated.' It's like a social club of the most dysfunctional people that are still able to stand coming into contact with one another."

"Careful there, pirate," Aveline warned. "What you describe is dangerously close to _us_, you know."

"So it is," Isabela realized in amazement. "Still, at least _we_ all have somewhat normal names. Why couldn't the Disciples have called themselves something like... 'the Exuberant'? Or maybe 'the Ludicrously Awesome'? Or – no, I've got it! 'The Candy-coated'!"

Varric laughed. "They have a reputation to maintain, Rivaini. Who would take seriously a darkspawn emissary that called itself 'the Candy-coated'?"

"People who like candy, of course," Isabela said earnestly. "Which is everyone. Think of how much progress the darkspawn would make towards opening diplomatic relations with the surface world if everyone knew from his name that their ambassador loved candy. They'd think, 'I like candy too. I must have something in common with this guy.' And he'd have points before he even met them."

Merrill and Varric were laughing. Aveline rolled her eyes; Cullen shook his head and tried not to smile. Isabela winked at him.

"That is... among the most egregiously distorted pieces of logic I have ever heard," Eingana commented. "And I've heard some _doozies_. Though it does have a certain appeal."

"Nevertheless, the Disciples are not the kind of beings one mocks without care for the consequences," Gage spoke up acidly. "They are all powerful mages, and they routinely deal with dangers and threats the likes of which you cannot possibly imagine. I recommend against taunting them if you wish to survive their presence."

Isabela opened her mouth to speak, a retort forming about how she'd had no intention of taunting any darkspawn – did he think she was stupid? Idiot. Cullen spoke first.

"None of us are quite so foolish as you seem to think, Grey Warden," he said coolly. "You may rest assured that neither Isabela nor anyone else present has any desire whatsoever to antagonize intelligent darkspawn mages."

Isabela smiled at him. _Well said, Cullen_.

"Oh?" Gage said snidely. "Not foolish, you say? And yet here you are, templar, marching into a room filled with _intelligent darkspawn mages_ not only unarmed, but also unarmoured. I may have overestimated the resolve of those the Templar Order accepts into its membership, if one if your rank – _Knight-Captain_, no less – is so easily seduced out of his armour by a common pirate whore."

"Gage," Eingana barked.

"I've heard about enough out of you," Aveline added angrily. "Nobody calls her a whore except me."

Isabela, again on the verge of spitting something nasty at the lanky mage, shot Aveline a charming grin. Aveline returned a small smile.

"I may not be wearing my armour, blood mage," Cullen said with an icy sneer. "That does not mean I am no longer a templar. You would do well to remember that."

Gage seemed surprised by the retort and did not respond. Isabela, against her better judgement, found Cullen's hand and gave him a proud squeeze. Cullen smiled at her, almost shyly.

When they finally reached the ritual area, it became obvious that the darkspawn had been at work preparing the room for some time. The room was large – at least a dozen meters lengthwise, and about half that in depth. A vast circle, five meters in diameter, had been etched into the floor. The grooves were filled with beautiful flowing lyrium that glimmered softly in the light of a pellucid crystal globe, hovering unsupported near the ceiling. A complex pattern of lines and arches crisscrossed the circle, also etched and filled with lyrium. A watery bubble of light covered all the lyrium channels, evidently to protect the ritual casters and sleepers from exposure to the dangerous substance.

Six silver bowls were set equidistantly around the circle atop overlapping sigils engraved in crisp vellum. All of them glowed with various engraved runes, capped by domes of unearthly blue. When the group entered the room, the two hurlock mages were wandering around the circumference of the circle, diametrically across from one another as they poured quicksilver ribbons of lyrium into the bowls and chanted in their guttural tongue.

The hurlock mages, who could be nobody by the ones Eingana had mentioned – the Embittered and the Isolated, though how to tell which was which Isabela hadn't the faintest idea – were wrapped in scraps of shabby brown cloth and mismatched armour sullied with what looked like decades of grime and rust. Both had long staffs of twisted, blighted wood strapped to their backs; both also wore elaborate leather masks, adorned with blades, pegs and other protrusions between which stringy bands of _something_ dangled. Isabela resisted the urge to look too closely, sure that were she able to identify whatever decorated the hurlocks' masks, she wouldn't be better for the knowledge.

The pirate tried hard to conceal her shock and disgust at the grotesque, pallid creatures, unwilling to offend them even indirectly as much out of gratitude for what they were doing as out of self-preservation. The stench of their corruption was incredible. Isabela forced herself to breathe through her nose, but it hardly helped. She was in a room with monsters. Her instincts screamed at her to fight or to flee, and Isabela had had much success following her instincts in the past. Yet neither reaction was applicable here. It made her intensely uncomfortable.

Isabela noted with abstract numbness that this was the first time she had ever seen multiple darkspawn so close to her who were strangely, blatantly uninterested in ripping her limb from limb. She could have gladly done without the experience.

The others, entering the room around her, seemed just as ill at ease. Varric, Fenris, Aveline, and Cullen all looked at least as put off by the darkspawn as she did. Wynne, perhaps hardened by having fought in the Blight, seemed more comfortable, though Isabela noticed that she was still examining the layout of the circle intently, as if searching for errors or subtle traps.

Merrill, interestingly, seemed the least affected of all of them. She was looking around with her usual blithe curiosity, having glanced at the hurlock mages with only cursory interest. Isabela wondered if she'd had a chance to discuss darkspawn telepathy with the Unspoken.

Eingana, Gage, and Velanna crossed the room, skirting the glittering periphery of the circle, to where the Architect was standing near one of the enchanted silver bowls. Much of the spiky, asymmetrical patterns that filled the interior of the circle seemed to emanate from that position, which was consistent with what Eingana had said about the darkspawn sorcerer "leading" the ritual – whatever that meant.

The strange creature greeted the Wardens in a soft, empty voice, speaking too quietly for the others standing across the room to hear. Beside him were two other darkspawn, one of which Isabela recognized as the Unspoken, the messenger that had arrived the previous day with news of the Architect's plans.

The other could only be the Awakened genlock mage, the one that called itself the Thaumaturge. It was a short, squat creature, almost (if such were possible) uglier than the hurlocks. Its skin was a rancid, cobalt blue, and its eyes were dark and beady. A number of scratches and grooves lined its round, flat face, which was split by a gaping, tooth-filled mouth that it seemed unable to completely close. It was garbed in an ancient and incomplete set of filthy dwarven-made armour, dented and corroded in several places. In one stubby, clawed hand, the creature gripped a slender staff of corrupted heartwood at least twice as tall as it was. The staff was topped by an ornate totem constructed of what looked like twisting halla horns, strips of unidentifiable material, and at two skulls of indeterminate origin. The spectacle was completed by an elaborate headdress, which the Thaumaturge evidently favoured over the hurlocks' masks. The crudely carved wooden headdress featured wing-like shapes around which gratuitous leather bands wound back and forth, partially concealing lines of glowing runic script.

While Isabela was surreptitiously examining the darkspawn mages, the hurlocks had finished filling the lyrium bowls and were now working some spell or other over their handiwork. Their casting had a strangely mesmerizing symmetry to it; gesturing with their staffs at opposite points on the circumference of the design, the Disciples were almost like mirror images of each other. Even their hissy, croaking chant formed a kind of gruesome harmony.

Those gathered to enter the Fade watched curiously, unable to hide their fascination, as the glow of the etched design began to pulse every few seconds. The light of the lyrium in the bowls pulsed in synch, emitting questing streamers of sparkling magic with each pulse that diffused into the air above. Gradually, the magic began to describe a vast hemispherical dome that filled the room, its base defined by the edge of the ritual circle.

Across the room, the Architect glided forward, spreading his clawed hands. A viridian aura, swirling with strange fractal shapes that reminded Isabela of leafy foliage, expanded from his body as he took his place near the bowl set at the zenith of the ritual design.

As the Thaumaturge shuffled over to stand behind the next nearest bowl, Eingana and the Unspoken approached around the faint impression of the dome towards where the others stood. Gage and Velanna followed with their staffs out and lit, magical flares at the tip of each pulsing with the rhythm. A distant throbbing noise became audible on each beat, a vastly diminished version of the resonant booming that had accompanied the beating heart of Kirkwall at the nexus.

Isabela suddenly realized that the ritual had started. She felt a surge of panic and fought it down. Were they supposed to be doing something? Surely they needed to be _within_ the circle, and perhaps lying down so when they fell asleep they wouldn't fall over and crack their skulls? But they would have been told to do so before the ritual started, if that were the case. Surely.

Apprehensive, Isabela examined the design more closely. While the ritual circle was more than large enough to accommodate nine prone figures of varying sizes, there didn't look to be any spaces between the lines and swirls of the design big enough for a person to lie in without crossing a lyrium channel.

Gage and Velanna arrived at the two empty bowls between the hurlock mages and stood behind them, across the circle from the Thaumaturge and the Architect respectively. Though all four darkspawn were now casting and grunting (was it supposed to be chanting?), the Grey Wardens waited in silence.

Eingana reached where Isabela stood with Cullen, Aveline, Fenris, Merrill, Varric, and Wynne. The Unspoken hovered behind her, his long cloak discarded to reveal a patchy tunic and a shirt of rusted mail.

"It is not quite dawn," Eingana said. "We have a few minutes yet to get into place. Come on." She indicated behind her.

At some point the dome had become bright enough to appear almost solid, except for a bubble-shaped portal that still wavered between Velanna and Gage. The two Wardens eyed them, Velanna impatiently and Gage with an expression of irritated boredom.

"Into the circle?" Varric asked nervously, having apparently had the same thought that Isabela had.

"Yes," Eingana said, ushering them all ahead of her. "Quickly, now."

Aveline lead the way, stepping cautiously through the portal into the ritual circle. Fenris followed her, then Varric, Isabela, Merrill, Cullen, and Wynne. Eingana took up the rear.

"Uh," Varric said, and the tone of his voice made Isabela look up. She was startled to notice that the Unspoken had followed Eingana into the circle. The moment the darkspawn messenger had crossed the periphery, Velanna and Gage joined the ritual, gesturing to draw magic upwards from their bowls of lyrium and gradually closing the portal.

"Is he..." Varric coughed, perhaps realizing he sounded rude. He addressed the Unspoken directly. "Are you coming with us?"

"Yes," said the darkspawn.

Varric looked surprised, as did Aveline, Fenris, and Cullen.

"The darkspawn are also concerned about the wyrd," Eingana said by way of explanation. "He will be useful, do not worry. He is a capable warrior."

The Unspoken flashed them a ghastly smile that made Isabela's stomach turn, but which was probably supposed to be reassuring.

Well, whatever, Isabela thought. She could deal with that. It was one more on their side, after all. As long as he didn't smile like that all the time. Or at her, ever.

Nobody else voiced an objection either, to the pirate's relief. Now would have been a bad time to start thinking up reasons not to go through with this.

Isabela herself was finding it increasingly difficult to suppress her fear. She cursed herself for not asking after details of the ritual before now. She had no idea what to expect.

The dome was now completely solid around them. The gesturing, chanting figures of the darkspawn and the Grey Wardens outside it were still visible, but distorted by the wavering blue light.

Eingana, meanwhile, had folded herself into a calm cross-legged sitting position with her back straight and her hands on her knees. The Unspoken had clumsily gone down to his knees and was now working his ungainly body into a similar arrangement.

"You might want to lie down," the Warden-Commander said wryly, noticing all the others still standing around and watching her uncertainly.

Cullen, Fenris, Merrill, and Wynne began to do so. Aveline, Isabela, and Varric hesitated.

"Is it okay if we lie atop the lines of the pattern?" Aveline asked, voicing their shared concern.

"Yes," Eingana said. She herself crossed no lines with her compact posture, Isabela noted. "I think so."

"Yes," Wynne confirmed, having lain down with her hands folded on her stomach. "It will not affect you, or the ritual. Hurry, now – the ritual proper must begin at dawn, and that is less than three minutes from now."

Aveline, Isabela, and Varric hastened to obey. The dome was pulsing ominously around them; each beat of the rhythm produced something like a breath of air across Isabela's face, as if the dome was contracting inwards around them. It was an unsettling thought that she pushed away, unwilling to work herself into a panic attack when brutal, life-threatening combat was imminent.

Isabela wondered if she should be trying to psych herself up for fighting the wyrd. What would it be like? Similar to the time she, Varric, and Anders had followed Hawke into battle against the high dragon, maybe? That had been fucking terrifying enough and the dragon had no magic. Nor had it possessed Hawke and probably tortured Anders and Justice into helping it, nor was it even sapient. At least, Isabela didn't think it was. No doubt this fight would be much, much worse, for all those reasons and lots more she had no conception of at this time.

Well... wasn't that excellent. Now she was petrified. _Way to psych yourself up, Isabela._

Merrill was lying on her side near the periphery of the ritual circle, her body curved slightly to follow the edge of the dome. Varric lay down gingerly near her, giving the slender elf a reassuring smile that didn't reach his eyes. Aveline rested near the middle of the design between Wynne and the cross-legged Eingana and Unspoken. Fenris set himself down a little ways beyond, warily eyeing the floor thrumming with magic beneath him.

Seeing Cullen lowering himself carefully into a sitting position, Isabela moved over to him with what she hoped was casual aimlessness. Cullen clearly wasn't fooled; he smiled edgily up at her, offering her his hand to assist her lying down. Isabela was tempted to scoff at him, but with a tiny inward sigh and a few unspoken curses against her own stupid feelings, she accepted and allowed him to guide her to the floor. The templar leaned back until he was lying on his back; Isabela followed suit beside him.

Their heads were a mere several centimeters apart. Isabela turned to look at Cullen, and he looked back at her. The magic pulsed around them.

He didn't let go of her hand, and she didn't pull hers away.

Was she growing drowsy already? Was it just the psychology of it?

Were they going to wake up in the Fade in time to get a tentacle of red magic through their faces and all die horribly, or would they at least have time to put up a fight before the tentacle and horrible death came? How could this _possibly_ end well? They were doomed. They were all fucking doomed.

Isabela was starting to breathe faster and harder. Her eyes were watering with suppressed fear. Cullen squeezed her hand, and she tried to calm down. For him. Isabela squeezed him back, gratefully. She didn't want him to worry. She shouldn't have cared, but she did. _Sigh_.

"I just thought of something," Varric said suddenly. "Assuming we win... what will happen?"

There was silence for a moment.

"Then we'll have won," Fenris spoke up, as if this should have been obvious. "I expect there will be a party."

"Can you be more specific?" Wynne asked.

"What will happen to Hawke and Blondie?" Varric elaborated. "Will they wake up in the vault, still trapped and watching time pass with infinitesimal slowness?"

"Yes," Wynne confirmed. "I believe so."

"The Architect said that would happen, yes," Eingana said. "Assuming we're successful. Once we are under, the Architect will go with Gage and the hurlocks down to the nexus and wait for Hawke and Anders to wake. Once they do, the mages will conduct the ritual to open the vault. Velanna will remain here with the Thaumaturge to bring us out of Fade-stasis – the Thaumaturge will know when it is time to do so, through the taint."

Well, didn't that sound all dandy and perfectly planned out, Isabela pondered. The idea of Gage having access to the nexus, however, made her distinctly uneasy.

Strangely, she didn't care nearly as much that the Architect, Isolated, and Embittered would be there too. For all their strangeness, none of the darkspawn mages had yet said or done anything that indicated they meant harm to Kirkwall or anyone in it.

Gage, on the other hand...

Isabela glanced at Cullen and saw her same concerns playing out behind his eyes. This time it was she who squeezed his hand, in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, and he who returned the gesture.

_This is insane, _Isabela thought suddenly_. We're all lying down in a magic circle we know nothing about – well, except Wynne and maybe Merrill and Eingana, but still – and we're surrounded by mages. _Crazy_ mages, four of which are _darkspawn_. One of which is a blatantly evil _blood mage_. What are we doing?_

It was her last conscious thought. Whispers of power were creeping upwards from the floor all around her, enclosing her in soft, cool brilliance. She heard nothing but murmuring voices, distant and indecipherable but oddly calming. A streamer of viridian flared across her vision, once; then darkness closed in, comfortable and safe, and for a bare instant Isabela was nowhere at all, floating between worlds.

**Ω**


	27. Constellation

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Constellation"**

Anders was dreaming.

He was with Hawke in a vast, grassy field. It was empty but for the two of them – they were alone amidst a sea of rippling emerald. A wall of grey-brown mountains loomed in the hazy distance, soothing Anders with their promise of boundaries and safety. The breeze was fresh and the sky was open, cleanly cerulean and clear but for the impatient sun rolling past. Far above, a billowing red ribbon fluttered from one horizon, across the zenith, to the other; beyond it, and farther still, a band of stars glittered and drifted.

Anders was aware of the spectacle of natural beauty around him only peripherally. His attention was focused on Hawke, who was intent on having fun with the mage. Predictably, Hawke's idea of fun involved wrestling Anders to the ground and keeping him pinned.

Hawke had him immobilized with a bear hug from behind, but while his strength was implacable, Anders had tricks of his own. Laughing, he wriggled free, slipping out of Hawke's grasp and darting around behind the larger man. Hawke spun around after him, reaching for Anders with a roguish grin, but the mage leapt backwards and evaded Hawke's grasping fingers by a hair's breadth. Anders struck out with his leg, trying to trip Hawke up; his plan backfired when the warrior dodged backwards and reached out to seize Anders by his foot.

Anders yelped as he was yanked forward and off balance. Hawke grabbed his other foot and somehow managed to haul Anders into the air while avoiding striking his head against the ground, leaving the mage suspended helplessly upside-down by his ankles. Anders whooped in startled pleasure as his world flipped over, and he swung wildly back and forth. After a few grasping attempts, during which Hawke snickered at him smugly, Anders managed to stabilize himself with a secure hold on the warrior's calves.

He shoved his dangling weight against Hawke's legs, trying to upset his balance. The leverage Anders could muster was admittedly poor, but he met with moderate success as Hawke stumbled to one side; or perhaps Hawke had simply allowed his footing to be dislodged. Staggering, Hawke surprised Anders by letting go of his ankles.

The mage had a split second to direct his sudden increase in momentum and was barely able to flip his lower body forward, preventing himself from falling on his head but landing hard on his behind. Anders immediately leapt to his feet and tried to put some distance between himself and Hawke, but the warrior was too fast. Having regained his balance already, he moved forward in a flash and had Anders in a bear hug again. He let out a deep, amused chuckle.

Panting, grinning, Anders struggled to free his arms. Hawke had learned his tricks the last time he'd escaped, however, and he couldn't squirm his way free.

Hawke got down on his knees, forcing Anders to follow suit, and he pushed the mage down into the soft, fragrant grass with powerful hands on his upper arms. When Anders attempted to slide forward and away between the swaying stalks, Hawke grabbed him by the shoulders and flipped him onto his back. He loomed over Anders with a triumphant smirk, straddling his waist. Anders, alternating between giggling and panting for breath, was well and truly pinned.

He stared up into Hawke's keen green eyes, struck dumb by the sense of complacency and bliss washing through him. For all the green of the endless fields around them, Hawke's eyes were greener. Sunlight and shadows played across his handsome face. Anders felt calm and happy, comfortably exhilarated by the playful exertion. He relished the warmth of his lover's body pressed against his, his firm weight balanced on his hips.

Their shadows were lengthening as the restless sun dipped lower in the sky, racing the wind towards the horizon. The beautiful cerulean of the celestial vault, gashed in half by the scarlet ribbon, was gradually deepening to cobalt. The twinkling circlet of light was becoming more obvious as its contrast against the darkening sky increased.

Hawke leaned down and placed a gentle, loving kiss on Ander's lips. His eyes drifted closed and he parted his lips to admit Hawke's tongue, lapping at it with his own. Hawke's grip on his arms relaxed; freed, Anders's hands drifted up Hawke's sides, dancing over smooth, hard muscle, searching.

With a mischievous grin, Anders dug his fingers into Hawke's armpits, causing the warrior to rear back and convulse with involuntary laughter. Anders stimulated a mild electrical current between his probing fingers, tickling mercilessly. Hawke gasped through his laughter, tears slipping down his face, trying to fend Anders off, but Anders would not be deterred.

Hawke fell backwards, off Ander's waist, giggling madly and struggling to dislodge the mage's fingers from the vicinity of his underarms. Anders took the opportunity to slither out from between Hawke's legs. While Hawke was still recovering, Anders pounced forward and barely managed to get his arms around the warrior's thrashing, meaty thighs. Hawke bolted back up into a sitting position, trying to push the mage off of him, but Anders stubbornly crawled his way up Hawke's body. He was scarcely able to control the powerful man, bucking and writhing beneath him, but he was determined to do it anyway. Eventually Anders was fully on top of Hawke and had him securely pinned. He allowed himself a victorious grin, panting with the effort it had cost him but exuberant and proud of himself.

Hawke relented with a contented exhalation and stopped trying to shove Anders off of him. Instead, he reached out to run his hands up Anders's arms and bury his fingers in the mage's sandy hair, pulling his head down for another kiss. Anders moaned softly against Hawke's lips, bracing himself in the cool grass to either side of the warrior's chest.

The bloated, reddened sun dove at last beneath the horizon, plunging the two men and their deserted surroundings into ethereal twilight. Planets and bright stars popped in the sky here and there, and more became visible every moment. The moon, a delicate waning crescent, had already vaulted itself high into the heavens, bathing the whispering grass with its soft light as it chased its brilliant sister.

Despite his overwhelming happiness, something in the back of Anders's mind didn't quite sit right. It wasn't something he really wanted to think about right now, since he couldn't remember the last time he had felt this good. But that line of thought only seemed to exacerbate the niggling wrongness he sensed. What was it?

Anders found it was hard to remember _anything_, really, before now. That in itself was suspicious, but it wasn't what was bothering him.

The sun had burrowed deep into the earth. The sky was midnight blue, bursting with stars.

Anders's errant thoughts dissipated as Hawke latched onto him and, with an ease that demonstrated had never really been pinned at all, rolled them over so he was back on top. Anders gasped in surprise, grunting as he found himself abruptly lying on his back with the warrior on top of him. Hawke smirked down at him and flicked the tip of his nose with his tongue before shifting his focus down to the mage's lower lip, catching it between his teeth and sucking gently.

Aroused by Hawke's attention, Anders reached around to run his hands across the warrior's muscular back. He fluttered his fingertips down Hawke's spine, inducing a light, teasing current. Hawke twitched and shifted a little against Anders, making little murmuring noises of delighted discomfort deep in his throat. While one part of Anders was only further excited by Hawke's whimpering, another part, deeper and cooler, clicked with recognition. Hawke wasn't ticklish, anywhere. He never had been.

High above them, the stars waltzed past. The brightest of them remained the glimmering band that continued to hover uncertainly beyond the red ribbon, conspicuously static beneath the wheeling stars. The ribbon itself was lost in darkness, visible only as a narrow strip of drifting emptiness across the sky where there were no stars.

For a bare instant, Anders swore he heard a distant, desperate voice calling his name. He blinked, momentarily startled. Then Hawke's teeth closed intimately over his earlobe and he forgot all about it.

Anders let out a subdued breath and inhaled deeply, allowing Hawke's musky, intoxicating scent to carry him back into carefree bliss. He watched the stars turning in the sky above, moaning softly as Hawke's lips trailed down his jaw and over his neck, settling over the leaping pulse at his throat. Anders's breath caught when he felt the moist warmth of Hawke's tongue sliding over his skin, the gentle sucking of his lips. A hot spike of lust tightened his gut. Unconsciously, he clenched his fingers against Hawke's broad shoulders.

Overhead, the moon rushed past. It was gliding along a path parallel to the invisible ribbon, always in view.

Hawke's lips had worked back up the other side of Anders's jaw and he was now dropping light, feathery kisses across the mage's face. Anders entwined his fingers in Hawke's thick red hair, inhaling deeply the sweaty scent of his beard. The warrior was grinding his hips against Anders's lower body, and Anders could feel the stiffness of Hawke's erection through the thin fabric of his shorts. The sensation ignited a surge of blood to his loins and induced his own length to harden in response.

Anders let out a low, eager moan, but Hawke silenced him by closing his lips over the mage's mouth. This time his kiss was more forceful, his tongue insistent. In his lust, his breath was coming faster and harder.

As the moon plummeted below the horizon and its placid illumination abruptly winked out, Anders again heard his name lost on the breeze. It sounded closer this time; he tried to turn his head in the direction of the sound, but Hawke growled and slipped a hand under his head, preventing him from breaking their kiss.

The sky brightened progressively over several moments. The dancing planets and stars faded from view as the red ribbon became increasingly apparent once more, its farthest edge aflame with light that had not yet traveled around the curve of the world. A second later, the horizon exploded with dawn; brilliant reds and oranges pierced the sky and revealed a bank of clouds, lingering in ominous layered bands at the edge of the sky.

Anders finally managed to work himself free from Hawke's demanding lips, turning his head to stare at the sunrise in simultaneous wonder and creeping unease. The clouds were the first he could remember seeing in this place, and they continued to gather even as he watched. They were a dark, slate grey, billowing from unknown realms towards them. Lightning flashed briefly in their depths. A moment later, rumbling echoes of distant thunder reached his ears.

Something had shifted, Anders sensed. He couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly it was, but the feeling was unmistakable. Something had changed... something, perhaps, was wrong, and maybe even had been for a long time. Memories were stirring in the back of his mind, ignited and illuminated by the lightning.

On the horizon, before the ascending sun, a silhouette appeared, waving its arms. Fragments of a voice and frantically shouted words carried across the grass. Most of the words were indecipherable, but Anders was now positive beyond any doubt that he had heard his name. Whoever that was, they needed him for something – badly.

Hawke was still insistently trying to kiss him, to turn his head away from the horizon. It was so difficult not to just give in, to let the warrior express his affection and express it right back. How lovely the thought, how so insidiously tempting, to lie forever here in the grass with Hawke...

Even so, the next time his lips were free Anders murmured, "Michael... hang on a moment. I think we should-"

Before he could even finish thinking the sentence, the grassy earth lurched dizzyingly beneath him. Hawke surged upwards, flipped him over and slammed him down hard against the ground, knocking the air violently from his lungs. An instant later, almost before the mage had had a chance to inhale a single, desperately painful breath, the warrior had sunk his teeth in the exposed flesh at the base of Anders's neck.

At once his body was afire with torment. The agony was so excruciating that Anders screamed aloud through the grass and soil in his mouth. His cry died rapidly as he burned through the shallow breath he'd managed to gain. Tears streamed down his face as Anders writhed, struggling against Hawke's weight, but it was futile; the warrior had his entire body securely pinned down. He could barely move at all, and he could barely even try through the hateful electric fire racing up and down his limbs, searing his nerves with unholy pain. His chest burned for air, his lungs empty and crushed against his ribs by Hawke's weight.

Hawke's grip on his shoulders was agonizingly tight. Fingers that had sprouted razor claws flexed mercilessly, piercing his skin in multiple places. Anders couldn't move, couldn't even think through the torment he was experiencing. No coherent thoughts could form under such conditions.

The idyllic landscape around them had darkened. The wind had become biting, uncomfortably chilly. The angle of the undulating red ribbon in the sky had suddenly, dramatically skewed; as the rolling sun passed behind it, Anders and Hawke were plunged into a swath of bloody-tinged shadow.

Anders, finally, was able to work up enough breath to speak without screaming. He had enough effort within him for only one word.

"Please," he gasped, and at once the pain ceased. Its absence, the sudden numbness that washed through him, was a blessed, miraculous pleasure. Still, Anders panted and sobbed in wretched terror at the mere memory of that fiery touch.

"What do we say?" Hawke murmured. His teeth grazed against Anders's neck, taunting him. Warning him.

"I'm sorry, Michael," Anders whimpered.

"Very good. And?"

"I think we should..." Anders forced himself to take a deep breath, blinking away the tears that continued to spill from his eyes. "We should stay here."

"Good boy," Hawke whispered. "Good. Yes, I think so, too."

He raised himself and turned Anders over again onto his back. The claws on his fingers dug pointedly into the mage's skin, and though he winced at the pain, Anders didn't scream.

Hawke pushed him down to lie flat as the sun raced out from behind the red ribbon, sweeping them back into brilliance and warmth. Hawke leaned down to kiss him again, and the touch of his lips was gentle and soothing. His kiss somehow washed away the burns of agony his teeth had seared into Anders's being just moments before. Anders accepted the bliss eagerly, too frightened and terrified to do anything but allow himself to tumble back into hazy, contented forgetfulness.

On the horizon, the silhouetted figure still called and the storm still gathered its power. Anders neither saw nor heard.

**ασυνέχεια**

Justice was forever and inextricably bound to Anders, and so he too was dreaming; yet the wyrd's power over the local Fade remained absolute, and it was sufficiently intense as to be able to divide consciousness and perception. Justice's dream was therefore somewhat different than Anders's.

The spirit floated in darkness, drifting aimlessly through a toxic, empty mindscape. His body was wrapped in clammy tendrils of some unseen, insidious plant life that pierced his skin with thorns and constricted his extremities to the point of torturous, tingling pain. Though Justice had passed the limit of his endurance long ago, he could by his very nature do nothing but continue to struggle weakly against his chains even as he was helplessly pushed about by chilly, ethereal winds.

Through his bond to Anders, Justice sometimes felt cool grass on his skin, or smelled musk and sweat. These phantom sensations were distant echoes, however. They were lifeless, devoid of context. All the images served to do was fill Justice with a maddening, wistful desire that had no clear object and of which he was incapable of making true sense.

The agony of the thorns in his flesh and the corrosive blackness he was trapped in effectively sapped what energy Justice could muster. The harder he fought, the tighter the vines squeezed. Meanwhile, the soulless desire for some indefinable and unattainable thing that burned inside him reduced him to choking, sobbing despair, and so whatever fight he did manage to dredge up within himself at once withered and rotted in black hopelessness. Hawke – or the wyrd, _through_ Hawke – had devised a prison of perfect cruelty, unmatched by anything Justice could recall encountering over the course of his long, long existence.

Though the part of him that was Anders whispered alluring fantasies of death in the depths of his mind, Justice would never give in. Even in the pit of his misery, he refused to contemplate the possibility that he even _could_ die. The downside to his obstinate will, of course, was the unavoidability of considering his prospects for escape: there were none.

Defeated once again by his latest futile struggle, Justice moved without purpose through the void, ashamed that he was unable to prevent himself from twitching and weeping at his pain. Then something changed.

Other sensations, unexpected and striking in their thrums of distant power, roused Justice from his listlessness. A far-off light appeared in his vision, the first image the spirit had seen in what felt like an eon of suffering. He blinked in surprise. He had almost forgotten what it was like to see.

Justice squinted at the distant energy, trying to make out what it was. He could not, and anyway his efforts only stimulated the plant that trapped him into excruciating constriction, distracting him from the mysterious light.

A torrent of sourceless, tyrannical fury welled up around him, outside him. Its origin was in Hawke, or the wyrd – or perhaps both, for they were so intertwined at this point that Justice could no longer tell them apart. Whatever this intrusion into Justice's solitary torment was, it annoyed and frustrated the wyrd a great deal.

The light ahead of Justice brightened. The sensations intensified and multiplied. The darkness spawned more lights – above and below, in every direction.

With a start of shock, Justice realized what was going on. Minds were appearing in the Fade – living minds, _aware_ minds. They were blossoming all around him, unfolding tendrils of tentative, powerful thought, focused and healthy.

Others were invading the Fade from the far side, and they were looking for him.

Hawke was furious. His voice thundered through Justice's head. _Your friends... your bloody friends! They are _still_ harrying me, _still_ trying to interfere! What will it take?_

His friends. Anders's friends. They were coming here, into the Fade – trying to save them, trying to save Hawke. Still.

Some part of Justice, that which was mostly Anders, wept with love for these people who would risk so much for the man he loved and for him. The rest of him, the implacable spirit that yearned to correct what he saw as corrupt, groaned to himself.

_You fools_, he cast into the Fade. _Go back. Go back!_

Justice had fought Hawke's control for as hard as he could, but his strength was far from limitless. The wyrd's was not, and Justice had lost himself long ago. He would not be able to prevent himself from defending the vile creature that held his leash, no matter his volition. No doubt Hawke would force him to hunt down those very minds that had come to save him, for his own malicious satisfaction.

_Go back!_ Justice screamed with all the power of his mind. Anders's voice, repressed and trapped in his own illusions with Hawke, nevertheless agreed with Justice's intent and called out as well. _Flee while you can, you fools! Leave us, it is too late!_

It was no use. They could not hear him. Nine shining minds had bloomed in the darkness around him, and they were approaching him steadily, determinedly. They were doomed, and in his private, silent Void, Justice wept.

**ασυνέχεια**

The Fade, Varric noted with unpleasant surprise, smelled like the Deep Roads. By the time he reached near-full awareness, the same cloying stench of decay, mildew, and desolation had all but choked his mouth and nose. When Varric opened his eyes, he noted resignedly that while the landscape was admittedly nothing like the ancient dwarven highways, the atmosphere was spot on: gloomy and foreboding.

The dwarf had materialized in a stark, dusty wasteland. The ground beneath his feet was caked yellow-brown dirt, lumpy with small hills and hollows. Twisted outcroppings of grey, crusty rock poked up here and there. The horizon was disconcertingly close, slashing across the landscape perhaps a hundred meters distant, and beyond it was only empty darkness. The sky above that abyss was cloudy and indistinct. Other islands were visible here and there, hovering before the vague, far-off impression of the Black City.

Varric looked away from the unsettling sight as he unstrapped Bianca from his back, scanning his surroundings for his allies or any nearby spirits that might be hungry for sweet dwarf flesh. Or... mind. Mind-flesh. Whatever.

Bianca's weight was comfortably familiar in his hands as he deployed her. She felt so natural, like his beloved crossbow was an extension of the dwarf's own body, his own will. Here in the Fade, that might even be more than just allegory for his skill.

There was a relatively flat plain ahead, which Varric supposed would make a suitable battlefield – though he would have liked some more substantial things to hide behind while reloading Bianca. The plain was studded only sparsely with rock formations and other bizarre, misshapen objects Varric couldn't identify and which he had no real desire to.

The others were appearing fairly nearby, but scattered. Isabela, Merrill, Fenris, and Cullen had materialized around the periphery of the plain to Varric's right, while Eingana, Wynne, the Unspoken, and Aveline were off to his left.

Varric raised his arm to wave at the Guard-Captain. She waved back and called out to the others to regroup.

Fenris and Cullen began making their way towards where Isabela was helping Merrill to her feet. Eingana and the Unspoken joined Wynne, who waited for them before setting out to meet up with Aveline. Varric headed in that direction as well.

Why had no spirits appeared yet? Varric wondered. For that matter, where was Hawke? Were they in the right place? Was there even _place_ in the Fade?

He looked up into the empty haze that was the "sky." It was all featureless, drifting magic, discontinuous only infrequently with the dark, solid shapes of islands. There was nothing else visible...

No, scratch that... there _was_ something. Varric squinted upwards, slowing down slightly so as not to trip and fall on his face. Aveline called out to him to hurry up, and he waved at her vaguely.

Arcing across the sky above their island was a string of stars. They couldn't really be stars – there were none in the Fade, or so Varric had been lead to believe – but the softly twinkling points of light, arranged along a single vector like a vast, glimmering necklace, looked like nothing else. Their gentle gleam, a familiar piece of the mortal realm in this strange world of magic, was mesmerizingly beautiful.

"Varric!" Aveline yelled, and the dwarf started, chiding himself for losing his focus in such a dangerous environment. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from the stars and trotted over to where the Guard-Captain stood with Eingana, Wynne, and the Unspoken. They began to move as group along the edges of the plain, skirting the hilly unevenness that bordered the abyss, heading for the others.

Aveline's ranked plate of the Kirkwall City Guard was unchanged from its real-world incarnation, though perhaps a bit cleaner. The Unspoken, too, looked little different than he had in the ritual chamber, though he now carried a massive two-handed weapon, the end of which resembled a crude hook split into two bladed fingers.

Eingana, on the other hand, had materialized in the Fade with an ornate suit of armour Varric had never seen her wearing before. Despite the elven woman's wiry strength, the plate looked heavier than something her slight frame could have easily supported in reality. It was forged from a sleek, ebony metal that shone with the telltale flickers of lyrium enchantment, and it was intricately carved with the signature griffon of the Grey Wardens.

Wynne's dream-self still wore the flowing robes of the College of Magi, but there was a pronounced difference in her demeanour that took Varric a moment to pin down. Many years of age seemed to have melted away from her. Her face and skin seemed softer, more youthful. She carried herself differently – her walk was smoother, her back straighter, her poise more relaxed and yet more confident. Her whole body seemed to shine with an inner light that came to startling points of azure, sparkling in the pupils of her eyes.

Seeing Varric's surprised look, Wynne smiled knowingly and turned her face to the sky. Varric followed her gaze back up to the circlet of stars that banded the otherwise dreary vista above them.

"A good sign," Wynne murmured. "I believe... I believe we will prevail."

"Uh. A-are you... uh..." Varric said uncertainly. The elderly mage was definitely _different_, somehow; but as to specifically how, and how to ask tactfully, Varric was at a loss.

Fortunately, Wynne seemed to know what he meant. She nodded once.

"Faith," she said simply, kindly. Varric's lips formed an "O" of understanding. Of course – the spirit she hosted. This calm, but undeniably potent aura about the elderly enchanter was how the spirit of Faith had manifested itself. Rather less blunt and nasty than Justice had been in Anders's body the time he had accompanied Hawke into the Fade to help Feynriel, Varric noted.

Across the field, Isabela, Merrill, Cullen, and Fenris were making their way towards them. True to Wynne's assurances, Cullen was clad in his heavy templar plate, emblazoned with the Sword of Mercy and reflecting the dull ambient light with the polish of newness. The two elves appeared little changed from their real-world selves; Merrill was still wrapped in her Keeper's skins, and Fenris clad in his spiky armour.

Several minutes had now passed, and still there was no sign of Hawke, Anders, or even any curious spirits. Even with Bianca cradled comfortably in his arms and surrounded by other highly skilled, well-equipped dreamers, Varric was growing distinctly uneasy.

He clearly wasn't the only one. Merrill and Cullen were both looking around nervously. Isabela caught Varric's eye as their groups united in a slight depression nestled between two hillocks of whatever matter comprised their island. She held her curved daggers in her hands, ready for a sudden attack.

Her blades gleamed as if newly sharpened as Isabela gestured around, raising her eyebrows at Varric as if to say "Where is everyone?"

Varric responded with a shrug.

"Everyone here?" Aveline said, counting heads. She nodded. "Good. I think we should-"

The Fade shuddered with thunderous violence all around them, knocking everyone off their feet and into the dust. Varric, thrown onto his back by the sudden tremor, saw the sky and the band of stars blanketed out as a vast red shroud billowed across their island in the space of a heartbeat. It fluttered down towards the groaning dreamers, creating an eerie sense of a shrinking dome lit from within by some sourceless grey light characteristic of the Fade.

"Stay together!" Wynne called out, her voice resonant with the power of the spirit she hosted. "Do not allow it to-"

Her voice was abruptly silenced as the shroud descended. Varric was alone, surrounded on all sides by the madly flapping scarlet curtain.

Panicking, the dwarf leapt back to his feet. He called out – for Wynne, for Isabela, for Eingana, for anyone who could hear him, but there was no response. He could hear nothing but the snapping of the otherworldly shroud that had closed around him. His world had withered to a snaking, narrow corridor, red on both sides and lit from far above by a distant, ethereal glow that seemed vaguely threatening in its washed-out radiance.

Spitting a number of truly vile curses that would have made Hawke proud, Varric started forward. Wynne had sounded fairly adamant that they should not allow the wyrd to separate them, but the creature had acted too quickly for her warning to do much good. Therefore, they would have to regroup the hard way.

Varric had to make an effort not to collapse into a nervous wreck as he made his way in the only direction the shroud would let him. If he'd kept his bearings accurately, he was striking out onto the plain. Varric kept thinking how they should have anticipated a surprise attack. The wyrd must have been expecting them to try and retrieve their Champion and his apostate sooner or later... all it would have had to do was watch the surrounding Fade for the appearance of conscious minds, spring its trap when they arrived, and pick them off one by one.

Varric shuddered and forced that thought out of his mind. He had to stay focused on surviving and on finding the others. They still had a chance to beat this thing if they presented a united front; if he succumbed to his fear, the wyrd would win for sure.

Struck by the idea that it might be leading him to some horrible death with its one-way passage, Varric paused and turned towards the rippling walls that enclosed him. He tried to press forward, but though the shroud gave a little, it rebuffed him with escalating intensity the harder he pushed. It would not allow him to stray from its defined path. Varric suspected he could have leaned comfortably against it were he so inclined.

Instead, he selected a bolt from his quiver and slashed at the shroud with its bladed tip. Surprisingly, the strange fabric parted easily before the dwarf's assault, but beyond it was only another layer of curtain. Varric swiped down again, revealing a third layer, and then again in frustration, with no more success. He decided to try one more time before giving up and thinking of something else.

To his delight, beyond the fourth curtain was an open space, what appeared to be a circular "room" in the cathedral of fluttering crimson walls. Varric hastily widened his cuts and jumped through, worried the layout of the bizarre maze might change before his eyes.

It didn't, but he was really no better off. There were at least four paths leading off into the curtains from this chamber. If he counted going back through the rent he had cut and continuing along his former path – which was certainly an option – he had a choice between five unknowns.

Curious, Varric turned around, only to find that the cut he had traveled through had vanished. He pawed in sudden nervous fright for a few moments at the curtain, searching for his impromptu portal, but it had apparently sealed itself the moment he'd stepped through.

Varric grunted in annoyance as he turned back to the "room." He called out a few of his friends' names several more times and listened intently for any response, but there was none. The Fade was silent around him but for the rustle of the shrouds. He looked up and saw only the same dim presence of an indistinct light source.

He hadn't been attacked yet, which was nice, but it was also somewhat suspicious. Varric peered down each of the murmuring corridors in turn, pondering his options and the ridiculous circumstances that had brought him to this equally ridiculous situation. Bloody humans and their Fade...

He considered: the wyrd had separated them as soon as they had formed a single group. Did that mean it feared what they might be able to do if they worked together? That was a reassuring thought. If they could all get _back_ together, it meant they had a chance to succeed.

And as he had already noted, Varric had remained unmolested thus far, apart from being forced into a stupid maze of red curtains. Was the wyrd, despite its claims of limitlessness, perhaps only able to focus on dealing with a few of its would-be attackers at a time? If so, that meant it wasn't paying attention to him at this moment, but at least one of the others and probably more than one were in serious danger. The luckier ones would be like Varric, wandering aimlessly in the maze until the wyrd could mount a deadlier response to the threat they posed.

It occurred to Varric that the "room" he was in was a hub of sorts at which four paths met. Any one of those paths might lead him to one of his friends. It was even conceivable that more than one of them would, though it was unlikely the wyrd would have made it so easy for him. Probably none of them would turn out to be viable choices, even if he took the time to explore them all and managed not to get hopelessly lost.

But if he stayed still... Yes, that was sounding like a better plan. Four chances that one of his friends might find their way to this chamber and thus to Varric.

And as if his stillness had been a homing beacon, no sooner had Varric posed this thought to himself that a pair of bladed hooks slashed apart a section of curtain near him and the Unspoken lurched through, snarling and hissing at some unseen foe.

Varric leapt back in surprise. Possibly more than four chances, then? That could only be a good thing. He had seen some truly weird shit in his life, but Varric had never, ever thought he would be happy to see a darkspawn.

"What? What's the matter?" Varric said as the Unspoken continued to snarl whilst disentangling himself from the shredded fabric, which was already repairing itself.

"Spirits," the hurlock answered in his strange, lisping accent. He spun around jerkily, brandishing his weapon. Varric stood well back, and eventually the Unspoken calmed down.

"They are fleeing from my blades," he growled, though he was still casting about warily.

That was good. "You see any sign of the others?" Varric asked.

The darkspawn turned to him, and Varric tried not to wince in horror at the creature's mottled, bestial face, his pallid eyes, or the scythe-like tusks protruding from either side of his face. "No. I am being cut off from the others and attacked. You are the first friend I see since the red curtains are descending."

Varric's skin crawled at being addressed as "friend," but the darkspawn wasn't exactly wrong. It was just so... so _bizarre_. Dwarves were supposed to hate darkspawn on principle alone.

He was spared further thought on the issue when Cullen appeared – tumbled, really – from between folds of the encompassing curtains. He was in the midst of being attacked by three shades, one of which had latched onto his arm and appeared to be draining him right through his armour.

Varric and the Unspoken surged into action as the flailing templar collapsed, hacking desperately with his sword, beneath the spirits' assault. The darkspawn lunged for the shade that had entwined itself around Cullen's shield arm, tearing it off the templar with his hooked staff and savagely slashing the creature into filmy ribbons of matter. Varric opened fire on the other two spirits, aiming cautiously so as to avoid hitting Cullen or the Unspoken. He wasn't sure how much damage a bolt hole through the "flesh" would do to the shades, particularly in their native, mutable environment, but he couldn't just _not_ do anything.

Luckily for Varric – and for Cullen – upon feeling Bianca's sting, the shades howled their resonant displeasure and backed away.

The Unspoken was still busy mauling the shade that had been draining Cullen as the templar scrambled to his feet, gasping for breath and pale from the effects of its attack. He nodded his thanks to Varric and, despite his lingering weakness, joined the dwarf in driving the shades away.

"Good work, team," Varric said conversationally after Cullen made his way back to him and the Unspoken had succeeded in reducing his target to a pile of nasty slag. "So a templar, a darkspawn, and a dwarf all walk into a bar..."

The Unspoken cocked his head in bafflement. Cullen gave him a withering look.

"Varric... is this really the-"

A bellowing rage demon rammed into him out of nowhere and he disappeared back into the scarlet folds. Varric leapt and let out a yell of surprise. By the time the Unspoken had scrambled forward to claw at the curtain with his hooked staff, the templar had vanished, his shouts of alarm and the demon's roars cut off by the silent shroud.

"Fuck," Varric grunted.

**ασυνέχεια**

Merrill was being chased by demons. There was a certain... _something_, there, somewhere, she thought bitterly. Irony, or aptness. Fenris would know. Not that she intended to ask him.

The scrambling elf took a few precious moments to hurl panicky, indiscriminate fireballs over her shoulder before she resumed her desperate flight. The seething mass of shades behind her scattered with a chorus of Fade-thrumming howls, dissipating into the red walls fluttering all around. By the continued sound of groaning, however, it seemed that at least a hardy few had hung on and chased her still.

Merrill resisted the temptation to shout an ancient elven vulgarity, instead saving her breath and redoubling her exertions. The path ahead of her was a narrow corridor between the curtains, apparently infinitely tall. She needed... she needed to escape these demons, so what she needed was an _intersection_, or a hub of some sort, to confuse and potentially lose her accursed pursuers. Or perhaps someone else to help her defeat them, once and for all.

Merrill had had no luck so far, but she clung to the hope. She had little else.

A hunger demon arose ahead, directly in her path, reaching out for her with grasping, misshapen claws. Unable to arrest her momentum in time to prevent a collision, Merrill reacted instinctively. She drew mana from the surrounding Fade and conjured a wall of fire, sweeping its mad, roiling fury ahead of her. The shrieking demon was flash-consumed, but Merrill was left in the rather precarious position of charging into a firestorm of her own making before it had had a chance to dissipate.

Her solution was a hastily erected barrier. Merrill had time to attune her spell to protect her from the fire's heat, but nothing else. Flames licked ominously up the sides of the curtain-corridor as Merrill charged through the swirling ashes that had been the hunger demon moments ago.

Struck by a sudden idea, Merrill poured mana wildly into the fire behind her as she ran from it, igniting the dying flames with a whoosh and an escalating roar. Several of the shades chasing her proceeded to perish in the ensuing inferno, but a few particularly persistent and powerful spirits refused to give up even then.

Demons were _never_ this dogged, Merrill thought furiously. Perhaps the wyrd had enslaved them and driven them to kill or possess any conscious minds in its domain, no matter the cost to themselves? This stupid cathedral of red fabric was almost certainly the wyrd's doing, for it was far from the natural order of the Fade.

The heat of the growing conflagration behind her was palpably intensifying even as Merrill continued to put more distance between her and it. A surge of panic quickened her steps further. _Merciful Creators, have I set the entire Fade on fire_?

A battle cry up ahead caught her attention, and Merrill strained her eyes to try to make out its source, hardly able to keep her head up through her panting for breath. It looked like an armoured figure, engaged in battle with something that was wreathed in ethereal blue-violet flames. Aveline? Cullen? Eingana?

As she drew closer, Merrill realized that her first guess had been correct. It was the Guard-Captain, barely managing to deflect a torrent of icy magic cast by a desire demon, its hands raised and gesturing carelessly with smug arrogance.

"Aveline!" Merrill gasped out, conscious of the shades closing in behind her. Both Aveline and the desire demon turned to look at her.

"Let's trade!" Merrill yelled, pointing frantically with her staff behind her. Aveline nodded and pointed with a hand behind her shield to indicate which direction she would go, hiding the signal from the desire demon. Merrill nodded her acknowledgement as she entered the small clear area in the curtains. Three corridors converged here, one of which was the one Merrill had been fleeing down.

Aveline backed up as the elf sped into the chamber, giving her room to bring up her fist with a spasming aura of emerald magic and a conjured boulder that knocked the desire demon cleanly off its feet. Its cone of magical frost was abruptly cut off, and Aveline took advantage of the creature's distraction to dart around Merrill and lay into the shades with her blade.

Merrill raised her staff high and called forth more of her ancestors' ancient magic, hardening the blade affixed to the end of her staff into a deadly spike of thorny wood. She plunged it at once into the desire demon's chest, simultaneously releasing her hold on the magic and causing it to erupt into woody, bladed tendrils. The demon writhed and cried out in agony as thorns erupted from its flesh in several places. It continued to struggle weakly for a few moments even while vivid greenery was sprouting from its mouth and along its arms and legs, tearing it apart from the inside. Finally, the demon's violet fires winked out and the hateful gleam in its eyes died, its body choked and withered by the elven magic.

Merrill turned around, bent nearly double and heaving for breath, to make sure Aveline was okay. The Guard-Captain had dispatched all but one of the shades with relative ease, and was now smashing that one into a pulpy mass of scoria with her shield. Beyond her, the fire Merrill had conjured had become a soaring pillar of heat and flame that climbing into the empty sky in the distance. Strangely, it seemed not to have advanced any further then where Merrill had initially cast it, though its heat could be felt even here.

"_Ma serannas_, Aveline," Merrill panted as Aveline straightened with a satisfied grunt, brushing some flakes of slag off her shield.

Aveline smiled at her. "You're quite welcome, Merrill. And thank you for that." She nodded towards the dead demon.

Merrill scoffed. "Those purple ones are such pushovers without their magic," she said brightly. Their combined victory over the demons was filling her with sudden hopeful warmth, inspiring her to levity.

Aveline's reply was cut off by a strangled yell and a demonic howl nearby. Both women turned at once in the direction it came from – down one of the other corridors.

Aveline started forward. Merrill followed, still catching her breath. She was glad she hadn't had to expend a great deal more mana on the shades. She needed to save some for the wyrd, after all. Casting was somewhat easier in the Fade, with so much raw mana all around her, but it took the same amount of effort to shape it with her will into the desired effect.

The shouting and howling hadn't abated, so it wasn't long before Aveline and Merrill discovered their source. It was Cullen, his face bloodied and his armour blackened with char, hacking and stabbing furiously at a rage demon that was cowering and moaning beneath the force of his blows.

"Cullen," Aveline said, but the templar didn't hear her. He kept up what he was doing.

"Die! Beast! Die! Die!" Cullen yelled, slamming his blade repeatedly into the quivering, moaning lump of demon.

Clearly, the demon had made him angry. Appropriate, since it was a rage demon. Merrill tried not to giggle.

"Cullen!" Aveline barked once it became clear that Cullen had progressed to the point where he was merely wasting his energy killing a dead demon. The templar stopped short, looking up at her with wide eyes, breathing heavily. Blood dripped down his face from a nasty wound across his forehead and down his jaw, narrowly missing one eye.

"You can stop, it's dead," Aveline said firmly. Cullen looked down at the pasty mass of demon, which was already beginning to dissolve into the surrounding Fade.

Cullen straightened, but didn't lower his sword. "Ah... so it is! Thank you, Guard-Captain." He cleared his throat and looked at Merrill, nodding to her. "I am glad you two are safe. Let us try and stick together, no?"

"Really," Aveline said dryly. "Excellent suggestion. I never would have considered it myself."

"Do not let your guard down," Cullen said seriously, casting a suspicious eye around them at the flapping crimson shrouds. He kept his sword drawn. "I was able to meet up with Varric and the darkspawn – briefly, before that demon knocked me into the curtains once more. I suspect the wyrd is trying to keep us separate while it has its minions deal with us."

"Oh," Aveline said. "Yes, that's bad." She raised her sword too, glaring into the curtains as if daring hidden demons to attack.

"Should we maybe move back to that clear area?" Merrill said anxiously. "If it's even still there? There was another path that led away from there. Maybe one of the others is down that way." She shuddered, looking around. "I don't feel safe just standing still like this."

"Probably wise," Cullen admitted. He gestured. "Lead on, Lady Merrill."

Merrill blushed at being addressed so by the templar, but she nodded and did as requested. They hadn't moved more than a dozen steps before a riotous tearing sound behind them caused all three to whirl, weapons and staff raised threateningly.

They needn't have feared – it was Varric and the Unspoken, pushing their way through the rent fabric where the hurlock had slashed with his bladed staff. He greeted the sight of Merrill, Aveline, and Cullen with a ghastly grin that, while objectively horrifying, Merrill couldn't help returning.

"Oh," Varric said with relief etched across his face. "Good. I'm glad we caught up to you before we could get any farther apart." He smiled at Merrill and Aveline. "You two safe? No injuries?"

"Nothing serious," Aveline said. "Merrill?"

"I'm okay too," the elf replied. "We were going to head for an intersection back that way, look for the others." She gestured with her staff to indicate the direction she meant.

"Sounds like a plan," Varric said. He glanced at the Unspoken, who made a sinuous nod of agreement.

They set out, Aveline and the darkspawn in the lead, Merrill and Varric following and Cullen bringing up the rear. The templar kept his sword out as he walked, keeping a vigilant eye out behind them for signs of pursuit.

The uncertain light from above seemed to have grown dimmer in the last few minutes. The walls of fabric were still fluttering all around them, but less noisily than before. Though the maze was no louder except for the several pairs of feet kicking through the dust, an eerie calm seemed to have descended.

When they arrived at the clear area, the other corridors that had led away from it – one towards the raging inferno Merrill had inadvertently unleashed, one into indistinct gloom – had disappeared. There was only a wide circular chamber bordered by dangling shrouds, empty of any evidence of their passing. Even the desire demon's corpse had vanished.

Aveline was baffled. "I'd swear there were at least two more passages here," the Guard-Captain muttered. She gestured around with her sword, pointing at a featureless section of shroud. "One came from that direction – that was where you came from, Merrill, wasn't it?"

"That's right," Merrill said, glancing around nervously. "I used a spell to destroy a demon... it looked like it had set the curtains on fire. I could still feel the heat when I found you, Aveline – but it's gone now."

"This place is changing all around us," Varric mused. "At first it seemed like it wanted us separate... but now-"

"Now it's herding us where it wants us to go," Cullen finished for him, a panicky edge creeping into his voice. "Look!"

Some distance down the passage from which the group had entered the chamber, the red walls were sweeping together, cutting off the corridor. The encroaching seal raced towards them in a wave that closed off the passage, causing it to grow shorter by the second.

A far-off rushing sound became audible, growing noticeably louder. The barren plain beneath the dreamers trembled ever so slightly. Bright light bloomed abruptly at the approaching end of the passage, emerging before the collapsing walls as if from nowhere. It was impossible to tell what it was as it hurtled down the corridor towards them, staying just ahead of the wave. It flared such a brilliant azure that Cullen, Aveline, Varric, Merrill, and the Unspoken all threw up an arm to shield their eyes.

"Stay together!" Aveline yelled over the rushing sound that had become a Fade-shaking roar. The light continued to flare ever brighter as it neared, eclipsing nearly everything else with its radiance. Merrill was all but blind and increasingly deafened by the noise, but she reached out with her free hand, trying to make contact with one of the others as Aveline had ordered.

Her fingers bumped painfully against a metal shell – a vambrace. Ignoring the sting, Merrill followed it down until she found Cullen's gauntleted hand, and they grabbed on to each other tightly. On her other side, Merrill felt someone, probably Varric by the height of his hand, seizing a fold of her Keeper's skins.

It occurred to Merrill that they had no idea what this approaching phenomenon was, or what it might do. Here in the Fade, it might be anything... and with the wyrd having already snared them in its trap, it was bound to be unfriendly. Just standing here waiting for it to attack seemed like a bad idea to Merrill. But what could they do?

What they needed was knowledge. If Merrill could gain that knowledge – even if it caused her pain or even blindness – she must do it. At the very least she could pass it on to the others, and they would then be able to act on it.

An instant before the light arrived, when its roar was so loud that it had become a painful assault on her ears, Merrill lowered her arm and stared determinedly into the luminous figure.

It arrived with a thunderous bang that knocked them all over. Cullen's crushing grip on Merrill's hand was barely enough to prevent them from being separated. Varric hung on too, though he shouted in pain. Merrill, paralyzed with shock and fear, could do nothing but fall.

Distantly, she heard Aveline yelling and cursing, her voice dwindling rapidly as if the Guard-Captain was moving away from them very fast. Merrill soon lost the sound of Aveline's voice to the thunder ringing in her ears.

She blinked a few times as her hearing gradually returned. To Merrill's intense relief, she could still see, though the burning spots that crawled across her vision had not abated. She blinked furiously in an attempt to soothe them away.

Cullen was groaning next to her, and the Unspoken seemed to be thrashing about in pain. Merrill couldn't see Aveline anywhere.

"Varric," the elf said faintly. "That – that was-"

"I saw him too, Daisy," Varric grunted. "Maker damn it!"

"What?" Cullen asked as he shoved himself to his feet with some difficulty. He leaned down to offer Merrill his hand. "What was that thing?"

He glanced around, his face growing alarmed as he helped Merrill to her feet. "I think... I think it took Aveline!"

"Not _it_," Varric corrected. "_He_. That was Blondie."

Cullen's mouth opened slightly. "But... are you saying the wyrd has broken him? _Already_?"

"Looks that way."

"Well... shit," Cullen muttered.

The templar reminded her so much of Isabela at that moment that Merrill almost laughed. A pang of concern for the pirate and the others they had not yet located – not to mention Aveline, spirited away right from their midst – caused the smile to die on her lips before it had really begun.

The Unspoken had recovered from the effects of Justice's strange attack and had clambered back to his feet, using his weapon as a crutch. He looked from Cullen to Varric and back again.

"What is... Blondie?" the darkspawn asked haltingly.

"Anders," Merrill explained. "He means Anders... and Justice."

The darkspawn frowned at her, or at least contorted its face in such a way that it seemed to be frowning. It was a mark of the strangeness of their situation that Merrill was hardly disturbed by the grotesque creature making such an expression in her direction.

"The Warden mage that the Architect is seeing, trapped with the other?" he asked. "The two minds entwined in blue fire – _he_ is the one who is coming at us with light that pierces and taking one away?"

"That's the one," Varric said grimly. Cullen was running his gauntleted fingers through his hair and staring into the dust as though hoping to find answers there.

"This is dangerous for us," the Unspoken declared.

"Undoubtedly," Cullen commented.

"We must be finding the Warden-Commander," the darkspawn went on. "And the others who are coming into the Fade with us. Otherwise this Warden and his spirit, they are taking us, picking us off one by one..."

Merrill shivered. She looked around, trying to fight down the surge of panic that the Unspoken's words had stirred. "How? The passages have all closed."

Cullen, Varric, and the Unspoken looked around. Merrill was right – the shrouds had sealed, rippling around them calmly, almost mockingly. They were trapped.

"There is one option," Cullen said. "We don't have much choice, anyways. We'll have to-"

The Unspoken slashed down hard with his hooked weapon, rending the curtain apart in roughly the opposite direction from which Justice had come and therefore, hopefully, in the direction he had gone.

"-do that, yes," Cullen finished wryly. "Lead on, ser hurlock."

The darkspawn gave him one of his frightening smiles and obliged. A smirk seemed to be playing around the corners of Cullen's mouth as he followed, though whether it was because of the Unspoken's similar conclusion as to their choice of exit or because he himself had just called the creature "ser" was difficult to say. Merrill and Varric exchanged a worried glance and hurried after templar and darkspawn, slashing their way into the walls, before the tears could close.

**ασυνέχεια**

The moment the shrouds descended, Isabela knew what was going to happen. She could see, with nebulous but inexorable certainty in her gut, that if she didn't act _right now_ she would be cut off from the others and it would probably be the last time she would ever see any of them.

Isabela leapt for the nearest person, who happened to be Fenris, and caught a desperate hold on his arm. She was not going to let this stupid wyrd cast her into this stupid dreamland all by herself and then kill her in some ridiculous, pointlessly horrific fashion. She was _not_.

Unfortunately for Isabela, at that particular moment the wyrd was the one making the decisions. Even her ferocious determination couldn't prevent the pirate from being hurled into a chaotic red world of billowing fabric, tossing her every which way and spinning her around until Isabela could no longer discern up from down. She lost her grip on Fenris at once and he spun away from her, out of sight.

It hardly mattered. In her mind, Isabela was caught so helplessly not in a whirl of undulating scarlet, but in the midnight depths of a storm-tossed sea. The wyrd had invaded her mind and ripped out into the open one of her most private, deep-seated fears, and despite herself Isabela let out a long, terrified scream. As she spun, she rapidly lost all sense of herself or her surroundings in mindless fear. She was wrenched this way and that like a ragdoll – by shrouds or by tides, she couldn't tell – for what seemed like a long, long time.

When it finally ended, Isabela was unceremoniously dropped onto hard, scratchy ground. A profusion of something that felt like stalky plant life cushioned her fall somewhat, but Isabela barely noticed. For some time she lay where she had been dumped, panting and crying, convinced her lungs were filling with water and that her very identity was dissolving in the soft burn of asphyxiation. The moment Isabela had thought she was drowning, every rational thought – all her knowledge of the situation and the crucially important mission she was supposed to be a part of – had fled her mind, replaced by unthinking dread.

Slowly, eventually, the panic receded. Isabela managed to get control of her terrified weeping and began to catch her breath, but her heart still pounded with phantom terror. Each beat forced some of that fear back down into her mind and pushed out rage in its place. All the while, bitter humiliation at the ease with which the wyrd had manipulated her emotions lurked in her mind, but it was soon overwhelmed by the gathering strength of her hatred.

Isabela blinked a few times to clear the Fade dust from her eyes, and then a few more times when she realized with a start that she was looking into a red-tinged sky, racing with scattered wisps of cloud. For a few brief moments, a circlet of stars glimmered across her field of view; then they winked out, invisible.

The pirate scrambled to her feet, irritably brushing away the scratchy stalks digging into her skin, and looked around. She stood in what seemed to be an endless field of waist-high wheat, waving gently back and forth in a nearly imperceptible breeze. It was as if a fragment of the vast Marcher farmlands that supplied much of Thedas had been recreated with near-perfect accuracy in the Fade, right down to the gentle susurrus of stalks in the wind. Only the bloody sky and the far-off enclosing walls of red fabric cast a sinister, otherworldly pall over the otherwise mundane agrarian landscape.

The indentation caused by her rough landing was the only visible variation in the sea of wheat as far as Isabela could see. The rippling cliffs of the wyrd's shroud might have been infinitely far away, for all she could judge their distance. She was alone in the open expanse.

It was miraculous that she hadn't gutted herself landing on her daggers, Isabela pondered, eyeing the knives lying amidst the crushed wheat stalks. She leaned down to snatch them up, feeling marginally safer with her weapons in hand, but the creeping unease at her isolation was undimmed. There was no sign of any of the others nearby, or even any curious demons.

"Maker _damn_ it," Isabela groaned. So much for not letting the wyrd cast her into some strange dreamland all by herself. The creature had separated them all, and quite effectively – who could say how long it would take her to reach the edge of this immensity? And even then, what would she do? Where could she go?

One problem at a time, Isabela told herself. Right now she needed to get moving. She was a sitting duck out here in the open. Why hadn't the wyrd appeared, then, to finish her off? Or even sent some of its underlings to do the job... or even Hawke?

The idea sent a horrible, icy chill up Isabela's spine. She imagined Hawke barreling towards her, greatsword raised, trampling wheat and bellowing a war cry. If she was lucky, Isabela might be able to evade his charge, the first few times. She was faster than he, but she would tire quickly and he had all the resources of an ancient, superpowerful being to call upon. What could Isabela do against Michael Hawke? He would doubtless be wearing armour, and against heavy plate her knives might as well be toothpicks. Hawke was probably a hundred kilos of solid muscle – the moment he got his hands on her, he would break her like a twig.

Isabela steeled her nerves and tightened her grip on her knives. Well – doomed she might be, but there was no way she was just going to lie down and _let_ Hawke kill her. Or... whatever nasty thing the wyrd had in mind to kill her with. Nor would she make it any easier for the damned creature than she could help, and that meant not standing here like an idiot.

She set out in a random direction, parting the wheat before her and leaving a trail of trampled stalks, casting about her for signs of life. She had been determinedly avoiding thinking about her friends, and Cullen in particular, with the justification that she had to see to her own safety before she could be of any help to them. Unbidden, the templar's face appeared in her mind, asking her to stay out of the Fade because he couldn't bear to see her hurt. She almost wished she'd listened to him. Almost.

But Isabela had run away from Hawke when he needed her once before. She had no intention of doing it again... even if Hawke himself might very well end up killing her for her efforts.

She had been walking for several minutes when a radiant comet streaked across the heavens, coloured a bright, surreal blue. Its sudden appearance and its striking contrast against the crimson sky provoked a startled gasp from the pirate. Isabela instinctively made to shield her eyes from the glare, but the object had passed overhead so quickly that the effort was unnecessary. The wheat rippled madly in its wake, and at flicker of brightness Isabela turned to see that a wedge-shaped area of the field had been set alight. The flames, burning with the comet's eldritch blue, were racing towards her.

Isabela cursed and started to run.

The comet, whatever it had been, was still visible as a flare in the distance. It soon faded from view, swallowed by the wall of red at the limit of Isabela's perception. She concentrated on putting more distance between herself and the encroaching wall of fire. The wind began to pick up, mocking her efforts, urging the fire into a darkly playful chase that could only end badly for her. The heat of the blaze was soon licking at Isabela's skin, sparking deeper fear in her gut and urging her to run faster, despite the increasingly obvious futility.

Isabela had felt true hate for a few things over the course of her life, but the intensity of her revulsion for the wyrd shocked her. First she had nearly drowned, or so it had felt to her. Now, having survived that trauma, was she to be burned alive? Would the thing not be satisfied unless it had ended her existence in the most painful way it could conveniently devise?

In her mind – for despite her passion, she dared not waste any breath – Isabela cursed the wyrd with the vilest, most damnable oaths she knew and could come up with under pressure. It had consumed Hawke, consumed Anders, shattered the city of Kirkwall and pushed it to the brink of destruction... and would no doubt shortly add Isabela, formerly Captain Isabela of the _Siren's Call_, to its impressive tally of victims.

Her vision blurred by tears, Isabela tripped over something lying in the wheat and only narrowly managed not to sprawl onto her face. She stumbled for some distance before she was able to recover her balance and regain control of her momentum. Curious despite the danger, Isabela jogged back a few meters to see what it was that had nearly brought about her face plant. She was glad she had.

It was Aveline, lying bruised and unconscious amidst the swaying stalks, a number of nasty abrasions on her face made gruesomely conspicuous by the red-tinged light of the sky. Isabela had tripped over her outstretched legs, clad in the ranked plate of Kirkwall's Captain of the Guard.

"Aveline," Isabela groaned, dropping her knives and collapsing to her knees beside the unconscious woman. "Aveline – wake up, damn it." She grabbed the Guard-Captain by her pauldrons and shook her vigorously.

The blue fire had consumed the horizon, spreading a wall of billowing black smoke scant hundreds of meters distant and bringing the edge of the world ever closer to where Aveline lay. The wind had become a steady gale.

Isabela slapped Aveline's face, but still she did not wake.

"Don't you dare bugger off on me now, big girl! Come _on_!" Isabela exclaimed. She slapped Aveline a few more times, to no effect.

Fighting back a sob, starkly aware of the approaching blaze and its increasingly uncomfortable heat on her skin, Isabela pounded her fist on Aveline's breastplate. She regretted it at once, because it made her hand crack with awful pain. "Shit! Shit-shit-shit-Maker-damn-it, Aveline, wake _up_! Wake the fuck up right now or so help me..."

Isabela took a shaky, barely-controlled breath. "You're... you're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

Nothing.

"You priggish, uptight bitch," Isabela cried. "I need you, I need your help, I need your strength. Of all the times you could have picked to finally think of _yourself_ first-"

"Shut up, whore," Aveline mumbled, and Isabela laughed with hysterical relief, falling forward onto the Guard-Captain's chest with her head buried in her arms. She wasn't going to die alone.

"Isabela..." Aveline stirred with painful stiffness. "Get off me, idiot woman. We have to..." She groaned, reaching up to carefully touch the bruises and scrapes on her face. "We have to go..."

"It's too late," Isabela whispered and she straightened, wiping tears from her eyes and cheeks with the back of one hand. "We're already dead. I'm sorry, Aveline. We can't outrun the fire."

Aveline shoved herself up on one arm, reaching over to brush aside some of the wheat stalks, fluttering madly in the wind. She hardly needed to in order to see the fire Isabela was referring to. It had engulfed half of the visible landscape, laying waste to the wheat field with unnatural speed. Its heat seared their unprotected skin, and it would be upon them in moments.

Aveline let her arm fall and sighed. She worked herself into a sitting position and struggled to turn over and get her legs underneath her, one of which was clearly badly wounded, judging by the congealed blood caked all over one dented greave.

"Help me up," Aveline grunted.

Isabela pushed herself back to an upright position her hands on her knees. "This is useless," she said. "We're so screwed."

She helped the injured Guard-Captain regain her feet anyway. Isabela couldn't suppress the hope that Aveline would come up with some brilliant plan that would get them out of this hopeless mess alive and relatively undamaged, like she and Hawke did sometimes.

That spark was promptly crushed when Aveline leaned against her unsteadily and said "Isabela..." in a tone of such weariness that it was almost relieved.

"I... I'm..."

Isabela ducked under Aveline's arm, draping it over her shoulders to take the weight off the other woman's wounded leg. She wrapped her arm around the Guard-Captain's opposite side in a clumsy one-sided hug.

"You don't have to say anything," Isabela told her quietly, blinking against the burning sting of heat thrown forward by the encroaching wall of fire. "I understand."

Aveline squeezed her shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. "It's... a good thing, to not be alone," she commented, and Isabela nodded tearfully.

Then a voice, gentle and comforting, bloomed in their minds: _Have faith, my dears._

A circle of cool light descended from the tortured sky, settling around them in a wash of startling colour. The heat of the fire bled away at once, and both Aveline and Isabela looked up and around, startled. High above, the sky within their tiny circle was clear, and a familiar blue; outside it remained bloody and hot.

The circle shuddered, releasing a pulse of power that breathed over them, washing away the last vestiges of the fire's heat and sending tingles of healing magic across both women. Aveline straightened with a look of wonder of her face, the abrasions on her face melting away and her twisted leg straightening.

"What the crap...?" Isabela whispered, and in wordless awe Aveline pointed, outward and up, through the pillars of the sapphire inferno licking the clouds mere meters from the enchanted circle that contained them. Barely visible through the flames, a spectral figure drifted in the sky, extending wings of magic out to their circle and sustaining it against the conflagration's violence. Behind it and higher still, a band of stars arced across the crimson emptiness, stark in the sheer depth of their vivid blue.

"Is that... _Wynne_?" Isabela asked, mouth agape. Aveline nodded silently.

A second later the fire swept across them like a tsunami breaking on an island that was minuscule in comparison. Wheat stalks ignited in the furious heat meters ahead of the wall. Sparks danced and swirled upwards, borne aloft by the intensity of the blaze. For several long minutes, Aveline and Isabela huddled in their circle of protective magic, watching the firestorm as it raged around them. Their circle remained blissfully cool, the women and wheat within safe and healthy. Azure flames licked continuously at the barrier, but it remained stoically impermeable.

Finally the storm passed, and when it was safe the barrier fell. Isabela and Aveline stood in a circle of wheat surrounded by an ocean of ash. Their tiny island was the sole remaining bastion of life in a charred, ruined wasteland that stretched as far as they could see. The flames of greatest intensity had moved on, and so when the magic circle dissolved, the temperature hardly rose at all.

Wynne descended from the sky in a cloud of soft blue light. Her eyes, indeed her very skin, were alight with energy. When she spoke, her voice thrummed with deep, serene power.

"I'm glad you're safe," she said as she touched down.

"Wynne," Aveline said cautiously. "Thank you. You saved our lives."

"Yeah," Isabela said, feeling a little giddy at their improbable survival. "Thanks, Wynne. Really. I... I owe you one."

Wynne smiled at her. "You owe me nothing."

"We'll see," Isabela said, returning a small smile. Wynne looked to Aveline, who still seemed uncertain.

"Do not be afraid," the elderly mage said as Aveline opened her mouth to speak. "I am still Wynne. Here, however, I am also Faith."

Something subtle changed in her voice, but Isabela couldn't pin down exactly what.

"My light has shone through the Veil for so long, keeping my beloved afloat... I have not much left. But I have enough to see this through. It is so good to feel the waters of my home once more... and with my beloved."

This was getting a bit creepy. Wynne's voice was echoing across the lifeless wasteland. The light in her eyes was flickering, and it was shining from her mouth as she talked, too.

Isabela pushed aside her unease. Wynne and her spirit of Faith certainly seemed to make a much nicer, less confrontational abomination than Anders and Justice did.

Wynne looked up at the band of stars that glittered in the red sky. "We shall succeed," she said quietly. "It will be trying, certainly... it may well cost us much... but you need not fear. You need not doubt me, or your friends, and least of all yourselves. We _will_ succeed."

Maybe it was the presence of the spirit, but Isabela believed her.

Aveline looked reassured, too. "Very well, then," she said. "Do you know where any of the others are?"

Wynne's voice normalized somewhat when she answered, though it still carried an eerie resonance. "Fenris is here in the field, somewhere. I cast out magic to protect him – we need merely reunite with him before other forces intervene to keep us separate. Eingana is somewhere in this demesne of the Fade too, but she is still ahead of the inferno. As for the others..." She grimaced. "They are beyond the wyrd's shroud. I cannot locate them yet."

"How far away is Eingana?" Isabela asked, worried that the Warden-Commander would not be able to outrun the deadly, unnaturally hot flames the comet had sparked. "Can you protect her too?"

"I can, but I must move nearer to her in order to do so," Wynne said. She raised one hand in a casting gesture; some distance away, across the ocean of char and slightly towards the direction the wall of fire still traveled, a bright beacon of light rose into the sky. Wynne raised her other arm, and two identical, radiant shafts speared upwards from Aveline and Isabela.

"These beacons will enable you to reach Fenris, and find each other again should you become separated," Wynne explained.

Aveline raised an impressed eyebrow. "Good thinking, Wynne. Thank you."

"My pleasure. Now I must go to Eingana – I will see you again shortly."

"Good luck," Isabela said. Wynne smiled her reassurance, and just like that she had lifted again into the sky, flying away on ethereal wings. She flitted high into the sky, heading rapidly away from them and towards the retreating conflagration.

Having been reinvigorated by the healing magic of Wynne's protective circle, and since they had no way of knowing how much subjective distance they would have to cover, Isabela and Aveline set out in the direction of Fenris's beacon at a brisk jog. Aveline's greaves and Isabela's boots crunched morosely over the morass of burned wheat stalks, kicking up puffs of soot and staining their footwear dusky black.

At one point Aveline said contemplatively over the hard, fast rhythm of their footsteps, "Do you think..."

"I do, actually," Isabela said dryly after Aveline's voice trailed off without finishing her thought. "Contrary to what you might-"

Aveline cut her off. "Do you think we can afford to trust that... thing?"

"Do you think we can afford _not_ to?" Isabela shot back.

For a moment the beat and crunch of their boots and the distant roar of the fire were the only audible sounds. Then Aveline muttered "Touché."

Isabela smirked. That about summed it up, she thought. Hadn't Wynne just told them not to succumb to the insidious power of doubt? What reason could there possibly be for the elderly mage or her spirit companion to lie, or plan treachery of some sort? The very idea was ridiculous, and they had much larger concerns.

After a while it became apparent by the relative motion of Fenris's beacon that he was also moving towards Aveline and Isabela. As far as either woman could tell, the enclosing cliff-shrouds were still infinitely far away, but they had covered a considerable distance. Fenris himself soon appeared as a small silhouetted figure visible at the base of his beacon. He waved once he caught sight of them, and Aveline and Isabela waved back.

Several minutes' hard jog later, the women were reunited with the taciturn elf. By then the wall of fire had advanced so far from where they were that it appeared as little more than a line of hard brightness along the horizon. Its roar had long since diminished to near inaudibility.

Fenris's greeting was as terse as he usually was, but Isabela could see the relief in his eyes. She was rather relieved herself to see him alive and unharmed, and gave him a smile and a wink.

Fenris returned the smile, if briefly. His lyrium brands were alight and agitated, perhaps reacting to the currents of unseen power that shaped the Fade.

"Look," said Aveline, pointing. Isabela and Fenris looked; in the distance, two more beacons had pierced the skittish clouds. Wynne had evidently reached Eingana, and they had weathered the firestorm intact.

Then the comet reappeared in the sky, right about the two new beacons. It flew in a tight helix around the pillars of light and unraveled them into diffuse, fading strands. Moments after they had appeared, the beacons were gone. The comet continued spiraling downwards, picking up speed and flaring brighter as it neared the ground.

"Shit," Aveline muttered. "That looks like the thing that picked me up... I was with Cullen, Merrill, Varric, and the darkspawn before it dropped me here. I never got a good look at it."

"It's also the thing that set the field on fire," Isabela pointed out. "It's not friendly. In fact, I'd say it's evil and dangerous and we should kick its ass, whatever it is."

"Agreed," Fenris said. "Let's get moving."

They set off at once towards where the beacons had appeared.

**ασυνέχεια**

Beyond the burning wheat field, in the wyrd's maze of red shrouds, Varric and Merrill were busy fending off the latest horde of shades that had arisen from scattered individuals and pairs to pursue them. The spirits were as relentless as a swarm of bloodsucking insects and, it seemed, just as numerous.

Cullen and the Unspoken were engaged in their own task of cutting through the shrouds and leading the group towards Eingana, guided by the Unspoken's sense of her location via the darkspawn taint. Elf and dwarf retreated as they fought off the attacking spirits, led by the templar and darkspawn blazing the trail behind them and cutting down any spirits on the other side of the holes they created. Though Varric and Merrill needed to at least check what they were backing into every now and then, their minds were occupied by other things – Merrill with her spells, Varric with aiming Bianca. Neither paid much attention when the sounds of tearing fabric ceased for a few moments.

Merrill was keeping up a continuous draw of mana from the surrounding Fade and channeling it into various kinds of magic with which to rebuff the several types of demons attacking them. The Dalish elf had hurled everything from lightning and frost spells, adapted from Circle magic she had picked up from Anders, to the ancient natural-force-based enchantments of her ancestors. The hungry shades seeking her mana well were alternately engulfed in flame, shredded by bolts of lightning or spears of frost, and torn apart by animated vines and brambles erupting from the barren plain.

The fluttering shrouds to either side of the narrow passageway made Merrill reluctant to unleash her magical fury to the maximum extent she could conjure – she had no wish to set the Fade on fire again and inadvertently kill them all. On the other hand, the narrow, mutable corridors also channeled the oncoming flood of demons into a relatively confined space, which made her job somewhat easier. In the last several minutes, Merrill had even begun using blood magic to influence some of the weaker-willed spirits – something she disliked doing for a variety of reasons, chief among them being that almost all of her friends seemed to think it was evil. Merrill had little choice, however, if she wanted to protect Cullen and the Unspoken while they slashed their way through the shrouds. If doing her duty made her evil in the eyes of others, that was a small price to pay – one Merrill had never shied away from before. Nobody could say that turning the spirits against one another, and in so doing conveniently deflecting their attention from herself and Varric, was ineffective.

Varric, meanwhile, was dispensing wrath from his beloved crossbow with gleeful abandon, having discovered to his delight that his supply of bolts in the Fade was limitless – including even his explosive-tipped ones, which were so expensive and difficult to make in the real world that they were correspondingly less plentiful. Varric had never before had both the resources and the necessity to try explosive Rhyming Triplets, and now he almost felt sad that such a tactic would become impractical again outside the world of dreams. The amount of fun the dwarf was having reducing shades to degenerate slag in clouds of a dozen at a time was very nearly enough to drown out the direness of their situation. Varric had never seen so many demons at once, and if not for Merrill's destructive magic and the meaninglessness of physical concepts like quantity here in the Fade, their small, eclectic group of questing dreamers would have been overwhelmed long ago.

"Hey," Cullen said eventually, sounding markedly more upbeat than he had for the past half hour. "I think we're through!"

The hurlock let out a raspy, hissing laugh that, once, might have chilled Varric's blood, but now only gave him the urge to smile. Maker's breath, but he might have even been starting to _like_ the grotesque creature. Varric wondered if he would ever be able to take darkspawn seriously again.

"What?" he asked, glancing around behind him, but he didn't have enough time to get a good look at what had Cullen and the Unspoken so excited. The spirits were still coming, and the frequency with which rage and desire demons were appearing amongst their numbers was making Varric increasingly concerned.

"The shrouds are ending here," the Unspoken lisped. "Come through now, while the cuts are staying open!"

Oh. Well – that was good. If they could slip through between the folds of the curtain and let it seal behind them, perhaps the demons would stay within the maze.

"Go, Daisy," Varric urged. "I'm right behind you."

Merrill shot him a concerned glance but nodded her assent. She swept her staff in an arc before her, releasing one last rolling inferno to push the demons back, and dodged through the gap in the writhing curtains the Unspoken was holding open with his hooks.

A rank of eight or nine howling rage demons, scarcely affected by Merrill's conjured fire, advanced through the blaze. Their unpleasantly amorphous bodies lurched forward eagerly, reaching out with their grasping pseudo-hands to vent their mindless fury on Varric's dream-self. A desire demon glided forward above them, parting the wall of fire easily with a graceful, arrogant gesture.

Varric responded with a volley of tar bombs, also of infinite supply in the Fade, ensnaring the bellowing rage demons in a wash of sticky gunk. He made sure to aim one bomb right at the desire demon's face, and he took a savage pleasure in seeing it rear back with a furious wail.

The tar served to keep the demons stuck for the few precious moments Varric needed, and without further delay he ducked backwards through the rent. Cullen dove after him, and the Unspoken barely managed to scramble through too before the undulating shroud sealed itself with an angry _thwit_.

Varric stumbled a few steps through a wiry tangle of cinders before he could grind himself to a halt. The sudden absence of the rage demons roaring at him was rather jarring. He looked up, panting for breath and coughing out some of the black dust that had been kicked up, finding himself at the edge of a vast, scorched wasteland.

"Is everyone alright?" Cullen asked.

"Fine," Merrill said, though she sounded tired. Hardly a surprise, Varric thought, given the intense spellcasting she'd been doing for the last thirty minutes.

"I'm fine too," he said, staring out across the ash field at three distant shafts of light, dancing along the horizon.

"We must be moving on," the Unspoken growled. "The Warden-Commander, she is near..."

He pointed with his bladed staff. In the middle distance, between them and the shafts of light, Varric made out a cluster of lights, some of which flickered here and there and some of which were constant, though their brightness varied considerably from moment to moment. It looked like a magical battle was being fought.

Varric looked at the shafts of light again. If he gave generous credit to his short-term memory, he could imagine that they had moved slightly, towards him and towards the distant battle. He had no idea if that was good or bad, though.

"Is that her?" Cullen was asking the Unspoken.

"She is there," he replied. "But she is not alone, as you are seeing. The others with her, if they be friends or enemies – I am not being able to tell."

"Eingana might be in danger," Merrill spoke up. "Let's go!"

They went, setting out at a run.

The flashes of the battle grew brighter as the group advanced, but it would be some time before they could make out what was going on. The decision to speed up their pace was unanimous, however, once they began to the hear far-off bangs and clashes of battle. They even felt tremors rippling across the wasteland every now and then. Merrill and Cullen were plainly afraid for Eingana's life, though she couldn't have succumbed to whatever was attacking her just yet – the Unspoken would have known.

The hurlock's expression was as alien and unreadable as it usually was, but Varric liked to think he could see a hint of concern in the bestial features. Whether darkspawn, even Awakened darkspawn, were even capable of such things as affection or concern, Varric didn't know, and he was more afraid to ask than he was curious to find out.

Interestingly, after a time it became obvious that the pillars of light on the horizon were also moving towards the battle. Varric still had no idea what they might be, or whether they represented something friendly or a threat they were competing with to reach Eingana first. Fairly soon, however, it became obvious and the matter was settled.

"Wha- hey!" Cullen's curious question turned into a startled shout as soft radiance welled up around him, Varric, Merrill, and the Unspoken. The dwarf looked up in surprise as the light rapidly condensed into four new beams of light, spearing from their heads high into the sky. There was a curious gradient in the intensity of the lights: close above them, the beams were nearly invisible, but the farther into the sky they rose, the brighter and more noticeable they became.

Varric stumbled to a halt along with Cullen and Merrill (the Unspoken, ironically, was rather more graceful), looking up at the beacons with a twinge of nervousness. As if they weren't exposed enough already, they now had gigantic magical signposts right over the heads, advertising their location to everyone and every_thing_ that might be nearby...

Then it hit him. Of course! That was a _good_ thing.

"Hey," Varric said excitedly. "I think... we must be getting close to... Wynne, maybe. These lights – they're like those ones in the distance, see?"

He pointed. Cullen squinted in the direction he indicated.

"I think those are three of the others," Varric said. "Wynne, or maybe it was her spirit, put them over us in case we get separated again. We'll be able to find each other easily in this open field."

"What a good idea!" Merrill enthused.

"I agree," Cullen said. "Still, it would best for us _not_ to be separated again, yes?"

"Oh – well, yes," Merrill said with a sheepish smile. "Shall we move on, then?"

They did so with the utmost possible haste. As they resumed their overland trek, Varric did some light mental arithmetic. Himself, Merrill, Cullen, and the Unspoken accounted for four of their group. Eingana, locked in combat with an unknown foe some distance ahead of them, made five. Three more approaching from the opposite direction brought the total to eight. One more was unaccounted for – he or she might have still been lost in the maze, or worse, but Varric felt he had good reason to hope that the ninth was with Eingana. That last dreamer might well have been Wynne, having eschewed placing beacons over herself and the Warden-Commander due to the more immediate concern of their battle and the evidence of its location.

The possibility remained that one of their number had fallen to demons somewhere in this surreal landscape. Varric, however, refused to stew unhealthily in worry, and chose instead to trust in his reasoning and the ability of his friends and allies to protect themselves. The magical beacons shining above him, Merrill, Cullen, and the Unspoken, as well as the three others, filled him with warming confidence. He felt suffused by a strange and sourceless faith that whispered in his mind that they would be okay, they would succeed, if they only presented an unflinching and united front against the wyrd's evil machinations.

A glimmer of something not red and evil in the sky caught Varric's attention, and he glanced upward. It was a band of stars arcing across the zenith, curiously the only ones in the sky. Some were bright and some were so dim as to be barely visible, but all of them twinkled encouragingly. Varric smiled, though he couldn't say exactly what made him do so.

After another ten minutes' hard run, his confidence was vindicated. The battle ahead of them was becoming clearer with every step, and one of the combatants was unmistakably Eingana, recognizable by the ornate Grey Warden armour she wore. She spun in a deadly whirl of flashing steel, a gleaming blade in each hand which she used with prodigious skill against her as-yet-unidentified opponent. Varric couldn't make out who or what Eingana was fighting, but it looked like a spirit of some kind – a humanoid figure wreathed in eldritch blue fire.

Wynne had taken flight, whether through her own magic or by the power of the spirit she hosted. Aglow with blue-white energy, she hovered and swooped over and around the battle, alternatively casting warm restorative magic over Eingana and casting elemental lightning at their opponent. Every time Wynne hurled one of her dazzling bolts, the power was deflected off a curved barrier that flashed into existence only when she struck. Varric fervently hoped that Wynne's apparently futile assault was at least distracting Eingana's foe, whoever or whatever it was. Wasting her mana did no one any good.

Abstractly, Varric noted that flying mages had the potential for both drastically improved combat efficiency and brilliant slapstick comedy.

When they were finally within shouting distance of the combatants, however, and Varric recognized just who Eingana and Wynne were fighting, he stopped short. Merrill gasped and stumbled to a halt at the same time. Cullen and the Unspoken kept moving, though the templar slowed down considerably, staring in wide-eyed shock.

Eingana had locked blades, so to speak, with Anders – and Justice. The mage's eyes were brilliant suns, his flesh positively crackling with barely-contained power and his entire body limned by ethereal blue fire. He looked more spirit than man; it was as if Justice's overwhelming presence had caused the substance of Anders's dreaming self to bleed away. He was spinning his staff with inhuman speed, and its entire length burned with the same azure energy that pulsed over Anders's body. He manipulated the magical weapon so fast, deflecting Eingana's furious blades and delivering powerful blows of his own as he danced around her, that Varric's eyes were barely able to follow the exchange.

Varric took a deep breath and hefted Bianca, approaching the battle carefully and wondering just what good he would be in this situation. Eingana and Anders were moving so fast that he doubted he could fire without risking killing either one of them. Eingana wasn't possessed at all, so killing her would definitely be bad.

But what about Anders? Varric had no desire to kill him either, but would they have a choice? Had the wyrd had enough time in a day and a night to torture both the mage and Justice into compliance so extreme they would turn lethal rage against their friends? What possible reason could Anders have to attack Eingana and Wynne of his own volition, who could be here for no other reason than to help him save Hawke, the man he loved?

Then Varric caught a gleam of metal at Anders's neck, sparking with violet electricity, and his heart sank. It was a collar, dancing with bright runic script – all but identical to the one Anders had tried to use on Hawke to contain the wyrd and limit its influence. The creature's sense of humour was darkly ironic, if bitterly cruel. Varric wondered if Anders was even conscious of what Justice and his dreaming self were doing.

Merrill hung back with Varric, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears as she watched Anders throwing mad flurries of blows at Eingana and easily deflecting her retaliatory strikes. Cullen, meanwhile, had begun a slow advance with his sword raised and shield held at the ready. The Unspoken paced with him, keeping a tight grip on its staff with the two bladed hooks affixed to one end, beady eyes watching the battle intently. Perhaps the hurlock had realized the inherent difficulty in fighting an immensely powerful mage with the raw power of a spirit behind him, in his native environment to boot and with the added complication of desiring limited physical damage to either. Perhaps, Varric thought desperately, if they simply stunned Anders – or was it Justice? – he would come back to himself, his true personality would surface and they could take the fight to the real enemy.

That hope was crushed, at least momentarily, when Justice whirled on Cullen – who seemed under the impression that the spirit had not yet noticed his presence – and proved him wrong by invoking a repulsion glyph. A violent burst of magic knocked Cullen hard off his feet and threw him several meters. The Unspoken tried to dodge away from the suddenly-cast glyph, but he wasn't fast enough and he too was hurled backwards, snarling angrily.

Having neutralized the templar and hurlock momentarily, Justice flowed easily back into his battle with Eingana, knocking aside the blades with which she had been striking, Varric saw with frantic, nervy approval, for the collar on his neck. Justice moved like water around the Warden-Commander, pivoting on one leg and slamming his shoulder against the small of her back. At the same time, while Eingana was staggering forward and barely preventing herself from falling face-first into the ash, Justice thrust his staff forward to inscribe another glyph.

Varric, who had run to Cullen's side intending to seize the dazed templar and help him to his feet, saw the emerald bloom of creation magic at the tip of Anders's staff. He tensed instinctively, eyes flashing around to see where the paralysis glyph would materialize. He was baffled when he saw the familiar shape inscribing itself into the char atop the repulsion glyph, slightly displaced but still far enough away from everyone to be useless and easily avoided.

Varric's confusion lasted only an instant before he realized with a thrill of terror that Justice's "mistake" was not a mistake at all: he had deliberately misaligned both glyphs by casting one atop the other. The glyphs twisted and distorted against one another for a heartbeat before snapping explosively, releasing an omnidirectional cloud of screaming, discordant energy.

Eingana and Justice were far enough away from the engineered magical misfire to avoid its effects, but Wynne, Cullen, and the Unspoken were not. The elderly mage froze in midair, ripples of power flickering over her body and flashing from gold to green to gold to violet and back again in an unstable medley of colour. Cullen was likewise paralyzed, locked in position halfway through getting to his feet. The Unspoken had righted himself already with Merrill's help, but he hadn't gotten more than a step before the magic pulsed through him and rendered him motionless.

Curiously, despite the fact that Merrill herself and Varric were both well within range of the burst, neither were affected. The dissonant energy passed harmlessly through both elf and dwarf, washing over invisible spherical barriers that materialized around them in response.

Varric and Merrill exchanged a startled, fearful glance. What had protected them? Varric's dwarven heritage lent him an inherent resistance to magic, but even that shouldn't have nullified the magic so effectively, and Merrill was decidedly not a dwarf at all.

Then a tingle of power around Varric's finger made him look down, and his mouth fell open in wonder. He stared at the enchanted ring on his finger, only now remembering when he had put it on two days ago in the common room at the Hawke estate, after Anders had delivered it to him. Merrill had been keeping the wyrd's influenced contained with blood magic, just barely... and shortly thereafter, the creature had cast them all into the labyrinth of Darktown.

Varric and Merrill stared at each other, wide-eyed. Merrill wore such a ring as well, and if Varric's memory served – it really was only two days ago, but so much had happened since then that it felt like much longer – both wore enchanted amulets as well. Amazing, Varric mused, that the artifacts had protected them here in the Fade from Justice's magic, but not from the wyrd's that day in the common room.

Varric wasn't about to complain. For once something seemed to have worked in their favour: Justice didn't appear to have noticed that his trap had only half-succeeded.

Merrill promptly gestured with her staff and dispelled the magical field that held Wynne paralyzed. Eingana, meanwhile, was backpedaling and desperately turning aside the storm of blows Justice was throwing against her. The newly-freed enchanter generated a burst of force at Justice's feet that stopped him in his tracks, throwing off his latest strike which had come perilously close to Eingana's head. The Warden-Commander was able to scramble away, her breathing heavy and panicky, and re-establish her defense.

Justice whirled on Wynne with a scowl and leapt into the air, leaving Eingana behind. Merrill, working on dispelling the Unspoken's paralysis, leapt backwards in fright as Justice cast a powerful entropic curse at her. Groping snares of purple magic twined over Merrill's body, sapping her strength; she let out a cry of terror and pawed frantically at the spell, fighting it off with flashes of green creation magic.

Justice had reached Wynne, and the two were now grappling and tumbling around in midair, emitting sporadic flashes and bangs of magic-enhanced combat. On the ground, Cullen was in the process of shaking off his paralysis, no doubt helped along by his templar training. Seeing him and Merrill recovering, Varric ran over to Eingana to ensure she was alright. On the way he narrowly dodged an arcane missile launched by Justice that left a gaping, meter-wide crater in the ash field.

"Okay?" Varric panted as he reached Eingana, keeping one eye on the furious inter-abomination battle going on meters above their heads.

"Fine – _ugh_ – mostly," Eingana replied. She was still heaving for breath and seemed to be in pain. Her face bore a number of nasty bruises and lacerations. The Warden-Commander sheathed one of her swords, the one that didn't gleam with enchantments, and reached up to rub the back of her neck. It came away sticky and dark with blood.

"Shit, he's so _fast_," Eingana said in combined worry and amazement. "I never even saw that one. He's very nearly killed Wynne at least twice since he showed up..."

"This is stupid," Varric complained, wincing at a particularly loud magical explosion from above. Wynne was still fighting, though, and by the masculine grunts of pain and exertion that were audible over the bangs and crackles of spellcraft, she was giving Justice a run for his sovereigns.

"Why is Blondie attacking us?" Varric went on. "We're here to _help_ him! We should all be fighting the wyrd, not Justice!"

"I know that," Eingana grunted. "Obviously the wyrd got to him first."

Cullen had recovered from his paralysis by this time, and had made his way somewhat stiffly over to Merrill and the Unspoken. The Dalish elf had dispersed Justice's hex, but the effort had clearly left her drained. She was making as if to begin anew her effort at undoing the paralysis that still held the Unspoken locked in place; Cullen stopped her with a gauntleted hand on her arm.

The templar reached out with his hand spread and made a gesture of benediction over the frozen hurlock, yet one more bizarre image Varric had never even imagined that he might one day see. A soft cloud of blue-white magic rolled over the Unspoken, washing away the discordant magic. Watching the ongoing battle above them warily, the three of them began to make their way over to Varric and Eingana.

"Do you have any ideas?" Varric asked the Warden-Commander. "About how to deal with this? The idea would be to not kill Justice. Or Blondie, which would be the same thing."

"I have no idea," Eingana said.

Varric made an exasperated noise. "Come on! You're the Hero of Ferelden. You've killed high dragons – that's the plural of _high dragon_! How many blood mages have you killed? How many demons? How many I-don't-even-know-what-else-kind-of-nasty-shit?"

"Varric, I can assure you with complete certainty that I have never had to fight two of my former companions who have since merged and been tortured into mindless obedience by a wyrd."

"You knew Blondie and Justice both," Varric said cajolingly. "Before they were – were – what they are now. Isn't there something..." He trailed off desperately. "Like... I don't know, couldn't you grab him by the shoulders and shake him really hard and say 'I know you're in there somewhere! Fight!'"

"I'll tell you what, Varric," Eingana said patiently. "If you can get him on the ground and calm, not setting anyone on fire or fatally electrocuting them, then we'll try that."

Varric sighed. "Yeah. Right. Maybe Wynne has some ideas."

Cullen, Merrill, and the Unspoken joined them, and for a time they watched Wynne and Justice hurling blasts and torrents of tremendous force at each other. They had all but reached an impasse – Justice had Wynne on the defensive somewhat more often – and so those watching on the ground kept alert and tense, ready to step in and help the enchanter once it became possible again for them to do.

"Have you guys seen any sign of Hawke?" Eingana asked.

"No," Cullen said uneasily. "There was just the maze of red curtains – the wyrd's doing, I think. It's taken us this long to cut our way out of it, and we were attacked by countless demons on the way."

"If we can get Anders under control, do you think the wyrd will show itself?" Merrill wondered. "Will it send Hawke after us?"

Varric could see that the idea frightened Merrill a great deal. He wasn't to keen on it himself.

"That is very likely," Cullen said grimly. "I would not relish fighting the Champion, but at this point-" His face twisted with discomfort. "I know a few things about demonic possession – this case is unique in my experience, but Hawke has been here in the Fade for a day already and the wyrd has been influencing him for much longer than that. By now I would expect he and it to be... deeply intertwined."

At Merrill's alarmed expression, the templar went on, "I wish it weren't so... but I doubt the creature can or will manifest itself at all _except_ through Hawke, at least not in a form any more substantial than those shrouds."

"But... but it _must_," Merrill said anxiously. "How else can we fight it? How else will we kill it without also killing Hawke?"

Cullen had no answer for her. Eingana looked pained.

"What?" Varric asked her, fighting down a surge of panic at the dismayed expression on the Warden-Commander's face.

"I... I'm truly sorry to have to say this, but there are other forces at work here," she said quietly. "I wish I could tell you what they were, but the knowledge would do you no good and would only put you in terrible danger. The wyrd _must not_ have access to Hawke's body in the real world. If it cannot be driven away from him, it must die. There can be no other choice."

"What are you saying?" Merrill said shrilly. "We _kill_ Hawke? No!"

Eingana bit her lip and didn't answer.

"I must agree with Eingana," Cullen said in a voice heavy with regret. "Killing the Champion is the last thing I wish, but the threat posed by this wyrd is too great – even aside from whatever else the Warden-Commander knows but cannot share with us. The wyrd must not be allowed a foothold in our world."

Merrill looked stricken. She turned to Varric, clearly hoping for reassurance or support, but Varric could think of nothing to say to soothe her fears.

He shrugged miserably. "I don't like it either, Daisy. Not at all."

Merrill gasped and let out a muffled sob, covering her mouth with one hand. She stared hard up at Justice as if trying to force Anders to surface through sheer willpower.

Varric hated himself for thinking it, but it occurred to him to wonder whether that might be a bad thing. Merrill despised the idea of having to kill Hawke to save countless lives in Thedas, but she would help do it if there were no other choice.

Anders, on the other hand, would kill them all in a heartbeat before he would let them end Hawke's life.

Varric grimaced. The man's devotion to Hawke was endearing in a romantic kind of way, but it hardly made for good storytelling if the hero slaughtered a city full of disinterested bystanders to save one man.

The issue was forced to the back of his mind as the stalemate in midair was shattered. With a cry, Wynne unleashed a sudden avalanche of conjured boulders against Justice. Her assault overwhelmed his barriers and sent him flying at colossal speeds, spinning uncontrollably.

Wynne soared down out of the air, her feet gently reestablishing contact with the ash field and making for the others with a look of exhausted relief on her face. Varric wondered just how much mana it took to be able to fly and conduct cataclysmic magical battle at the same time.

"He will return in moments," Wynne said as she reached the group, leaning heavily on her staff. "We must be ready..."

"Wynne," Eingana chided, "you shouldn't try to take Justice on all by yourself. Let the rest of us help."

Wynne smiled at her. "Thank you for your concern, my dear, but I hope to succeed in our mission with a minimal loss of life. If that means I must withstand the brunt of the fire, then I will withstand it. Besides," she added as Eingana began to protest again, "our reserves are not limitless, but they _are_ very, very deep."

She gestured gracefully with her staff to demonstrate what she meant. A sphere of sparkling golden magic expanded from a curl of energy in the space between her arms. When the restorative wave passed over him, Varric felt his flagging energy buoyed substantially. Minor wounds he'd received from various demons were wiped away as if they had never been. The dwarf felt alert, confident, and well-rested.

The others were similarly affected by the rejuvenating burst. Eingana's injuries were gone, healed without a trace in moments. Cullen looked refreshed, a flush of colour in his cheeks and the residual stiffness from the paralysis magic melting away. Merrill's posture noticeably improved– she had been nearly hunched over with exhaustion after fighting the spirits in the maze and then barely escaping the worst effects of Justice's entropic curse. Even the Unspoken seemed a little more menacing, in a good way.

"Wow," Varric commented, rolling his shoulders around comfortably. Wynne continually impressed him, and his respect for the elderly mage grew. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet," Wynne said wryly. "Look out – here he comes!"

Justice was streaking back towards them, his aura raging around him and kicking up a whirlwind of smoke and ash in his wake. Sparks that had been lurking in the cinders were sucked up into the gale and promptly ignited, transforming the turbulence into a vortex of azure fire.

The possessed mage sailed in a wide circle around the group of edgy dreamers, wrapping them in a torus of flame that at once began to contract. Varric couldn't help his groan of fear as he raised Bianca in a futile gesture of defiance. He felt so cripplingly useless. What good were crossbow bolts and charming conversation against that much fire and magic?

"Do not be afraid," Wynne said with resonance in her voice, and Varric felt his spirits lift. The Unspoken didn't seem to be as reassured; he was eyeing the approaching blaze and hissing – though whether in anger or fear, Varric couldn't tell which.

"Cullen," Wynne said calmly as the circle of fire continued to close in around them. Its heat was growing more intense by the second; it was already uncomfortable, and would only get worse. "Would you please cast a cleansing wave?"

Varric found it amazing and inspiring that the enchanter remained unfailingly polite even in the face of imminent, fiery doom.

"It won't be enough," Cullen said, his voice somewhat higher than usual. Even so, he sheathed his sword and dropped his shield at his feet before crossing his arms over his breastplate, preparing to release a burst of annulment magic.

"Trust me," Wynne urged. She raised her staff into a casting position.

"Hurry," Merrill said faintly, cringing against the back of Eingana's armour. The Warden-Commander slipped her free hand into one of Merrill's and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

Cullen spread his arms with a grunt, and a ring of gentle, cloudy blue rippled outward to meet the incoming rush of fire. Apart from the roar of the flames, the spells collided with an eerie lack of noise; the intensity of the contracting torus paled considerably, but there was still an inescapable circle of fire meters away from the group and closing in quickly.

Wynne struck the base of her staff firmly against the ground.

Just as Varric was certain they were all about to be incinerated and nearing fatalistic acceptance of the fact, the enchanter invoked a spell that released a bright, hard burst outward from her staff. The flames reared back at the last moment, as if they were living creatures that had nosed into something agonizing and unpleasant. Whirls and tendrils of fire spiraled away from them in diffusing fragments, wandering aimlessly and eventually fizzling out.

Merrill and Varric cheered exuberantly. Eingana and Cullen let out more sedate exhalations of relief.

"Nicely done, you two," Eingana complimented. Cullen smiled modestly as he picked up his shield.

"I would never have thought to try dispelling that much fire," the templar said. "Thank Wynne."

"Not yet," Wynne said again.

Justice was approaching once more, with greater caution this time now that his tactic had failed. He drifted in a careful circle about their tightly-knit group some distance away, eyeing them with an intense, burning gaze. Now that he was moving slowly enough for Varric to get a good look at him, he could see that Anders's face was blank. His expression was utterly devoid of mercy, or even any spark of recognition.

"Justice!" Merrill called out desperately. "Anders! Come back to us, please! Fight its control! I know you can do it, I believe in you!"

Justice continued to circle. If he even heard Merrill's plea, he showed no sign of it.

Varric took the opportunity to check on the progress of the approaching beacons. He had been so focused on the battle that he had nearly forgotten they had reinforcements coming. To his intense relief, Aveline, Isabela, and Fenris were within sight and running hard to get to them. They would reach the site of the battle in minutes.

Unfortunately, Justice noticed them as well. He whirled around suddenly, having apparently sensed the approaching dreamers, and rocketed upwards into the air with a burst of painfully bright light. He became an azure comet once again, and streaked off towards Aveline, Isabela, and Fenris – no doubt intending to neutralize them before they could rejoin the rest of the group.

"No you don't!" Merrill said angrily. Newly rejuvenated, she yanked backwards with her staff, spreading the fingers of her other hand in a casting gesture. Wynne joined her, augmenting the elf's spell with a substantial boost of power. The result was a thundering wall of translucent force that smacked into Justice in midair, bowling him over and sending him tumbling to the ground.

"Let's go!" Cullen said urgently, and taking the hint, Merrill, Wynne, Varric, Eingana, and the Unspoken followed the templar as he rushed towards the three others. By the time Justice had recovered and stood up – slightly dazed and unsteady from the sheer force of the spell Merrill had cast – all nine dreamers had at last reunited.

There was no time for relieved greetings or the exchange of stories. Justice was approaching, brandishing his staff and slashing arcs of azure fire through the air that raced towards them. Merrill and Wynne cast right back, deflecting Justice's magic with a parabolic shield they worked together to conjure.

"Surround him!" Aveline cried. "Don't let him get into the air again!"

"Do that," Varric said to her, not taking his eyes off the attacking mage. "We'll distract him while you get in position!"

"Thank you, Varric," Aveline said, sparing a moment they didn't really have to touch him on the shoulder. She raced out across the ash field, giving Justice a wide berth as he furiously exchanged blasts and bolts of magic with Merrill and Wynne. Eingana and Isabela went with the Guard-Captain, while Cullen, Fenris, and the Unspoken darted about in the other direction.

While his friends were still curving around the raging spirit and he stood no risk of accidentally shooting one of them, Varric took aim with Bianca and finally, feverishly, released several volleys of bolts.

He had aimed none of them with the intent to kill Anders, or even seriously injure him, but merely to distract and put him on edge. Several grazed past Justice centimeters to either side of his face, causing the spirit to duck instinctively. A few more encouraged him to dodge first to one side, then the other.

Varric couldn't help laughing gleefully at the sight. "Dance for me, Blondie!" he called out, firing another round. Glaring, Justice gracefully evaded each bolt, most of which Varric aimed for his arms and legs. He raised his staff to cast fire and lightning at the dwarf, but Merrill and Wynne intervened: both mages clapped a cushion of force against the spirit, one from each side, and the sudden diffuse blast of pressure knocked Justice forward onto his knees.

The others, having had time to maneuver themselves into a ring around the possessed mage, closed in. Aveline and Cullen approached from opposite direction with their swords raised and shields held out defensively, ready to ward off magical strikes of blows from Justice's staff. Behind the spirit, Eingana held her blades ready, Isabela her knives and Fenris his greatsword, and all cautiously edged inward. The Unspoken stalked forward from the right with his bladed staff held out in front of him.

Merrill, Varric, and Wynne moved toward the imminent battle anxiously, unsure what would happen next but ready to render assistance. Justice climbed to his feet in time to see Aveline and Cullen coming at him from two opposing oblique angles. He spun around, eyes darting from Eingana to Isabela to Fenris to the Unspoken, and with a bellow of fury that reminded Varric eerily of Hawke he whirled with his staff held vertically in front of him. A spiraling blade of blue energy snapped outwards, throwing everyone but the Unspoken off their feet and several meters backwards.

Nobody appeared to have been seriously wounded by the blast, but Wynne raised her arms and released an expanding aura of clear magic. As it reached the downed fighters, it reinvigorated them and healed any injuries they might have sustained. Wynne kept up the pulsations of her aura, maintaining a field of accelerated wound-repair that encompassed all nine dreamers, but curved away from Justice.

The Unspoken had only barely managed to remain upright, but as the others were recovering and Justice slowing his spinning motion to a halt, he braced himself against the ash and lunged. Justice saw the hurlock coming and rushed forward, launching a flurry of attacks with his staff. Varric watched in amazement as the Unspoken caught the hooks of his weapon around Justice's staff and tugged down hard. Justice stumbled, pulled off balance.

Merrill took advantage of Justice's momentary vulnerability to release a burst of energy at his feet. Already disoriented, Justice fell over with a grunt of pain. At once the Unspoken tore the staff from Justice's hands and hurled it away with his hooks as hard as he could. The magical weapon sailed high overhead, spinning end over end, passing above where Aveline was getting to her feet and landing with a puff of ash some distance behind Merrill, Varric, and Wynne.

The Unspoken leaned forward and stuck one clawed, misshapen foot against Justice's chest, leering down at him and cackling. In response, Justice grabbed the hurlock by his ankles and jolted him violently with electrical power. The Unspoken seized and howled in pain, his weapon slipping from nerveless fingers. After a moment the muscles of his legs failed and he fell over backwards. The moment the creature's foot had released him, Justice was on his feet.

Aveline, Cullen, Isabela, Eingana, and Fenris had managed to get back to their feet by this time, though only Aveline and Cullen remained close enough to Justice to present an immediate threat. They exchanged a few ideas through a series of meaningful glances and hand signals while Justice was struggling with the Unspoken. Then, as Isabela, Fenris, and Eingana regained their bearings and moved in to back them up, Aveline and Cullen attacked.

The Guard-Captain charged at Justice from one direction, her shield held out in front of her like a battering ram. Across from her, Cullen raised his sword high into the air, fist aglow with a pulsing white aura. Lightning crackled along the length of his blade as he brought his fist down rapidly, tracing a streak of bright energy through the air. At his command a searing pillar of light lanced down from the crimson sky above.

Justice was shocked hard by the holy smite, and he staggered out of the way of Aveline's charge more by luck than by his own intention. Snarling with rage, reminding Varric of Hawke once again, Justice turned around to face Aveline and tossed a casual backhand at her. His hand bloomed with a sphere of crackling force that easily rebuffed the Guard-Captain's attempt at bashing him with her shield.

Justice rounded on Cullen and swiped his hand up with a clawing gesture. He clenched his fist and pulled with a grunt of exertion. Cullen was seized by invisible bands of magic and lifted into the air. Justice wrenched his arm back and Cullen was thrown clear across the battlefield, sword and shield tumbling from his grip as he soared overhead. Wynne hastily invoked a cushion of air beneath the templar to slow his fall, but Cullen's strangled yell of fright and pain was still cut off with an abrupt, sickening crunch as he slammed into the ash field. The clang of his plate armour compressing against flesh made Varric wince as it resounded across the wasteland.

Cullen slid for several meters, raising a long drift of ash and dust. He groaned and stirred a little, but didn't get up. Varric eyed Justice, trying hard to focus his anger on the wyrd rather than the spirit or on Anders. He fingered a tar bomb in his pouch, antsy and eager for an opportunity to use it.

Merrill let out a horrified gasp when Cullen landed and scrambled over the morass of cinders for the fallen templar, raising her staff and preparing to cast a healing spell. Justice, in the midst of forcing Aveline and Fenris back from him by hurling conjured boulders, flicked out one hand to send a crest of blue fire screaming in Merrill's direction. The elf cowered away from the spell; it approached so fast that she had no time even to raise a shield.

"Daisy!" Varric cried, reaching out ineffectually. His heart clenched with terror.

The blaze rolled over Merrill, licking around a hard, spherical barrier and leaving her apparently uninjured. For a moment Varric was stunned, thinking his grief and horror had made him hallucinate. Then he remembered the enchanted jewelry Merrill was wearing, and though his heart still thudded painfully, Varric laughed in relief.

Merrill didn't waste time acting surprised, though she clearly was – in the excitement of the last several minutes, she had forgotten about the ring she wore as well. Justice's attention was occupied with the fighters attacking him, and he hadn't even checked to see if his fire had done its job. Merrill straightened and made her way hastily over to where Cullen had fallen, her hands and the apex of her staff beginning to glow with healing magic.

Isabela and Eingana had now joined Aveline and Fenris, attacking Justice from four different angles. Even without his staff, the spirit was a formidable opponent. He was slipping around, evading blades and throwing out retaliatory strikes so fast that Varric could barely keep up with what was going on.

Eingana, Aveline, and Isabela were going after Justice with their weapons, while Fenris was having more success by lashing out with a variety of spectral effects from his lyrium brands. Justice fought back continually by raising brief but powerful barriers and forcing them outwards, knocking his attackers away from him and pushing them off balance.

Isabela was darting and flowing around Justice, nimbly avoiding his vicious jabs and bolts of magic while trying to edge one of her knives into a gap in the possessed mage's defenses. Meanwhile, Aveline was using her shield and the pommel of her sword to hammer at the spirit's barriers from behind, trying to knock him out. Justice wasn't having much success in throwing off the Guard-Captain's muscular, armoured weight, but she hadn't yet managed to penetrate his shields.

Fenris and Eingana were proving to be the greatest threats to Justice, and so he focused the brunt of his efforts on them. Fenris couldn't keep up blasts of power from his brands without it taxing him heavily, so in between bursts he used them instead to phase through Justice's barriers to try and get a grip anywhere he could reach. Justice fought back brutally with his fists and elbows, but it seemed inevitable that Fenris would land a hit somewhere.

Eingana was another matter entirely. Her enchanted sword was able to plunge through the spirit's magic as if it was a mere smokescreen. Even so, Justice had been quick enough so far to bat the blade away from his skin every time. A few times he simply grabbed the sword with his hand and wrenched it to one side, heedless to the damage it might cause his body. Eingana managed to keep a hold on the hilt of her weapon whenever Justice employed this tactic, but only barely.

It worried Varric somewhat that Justice seemed not to care that his fingers might have been sliced off in the process of snatching a descending lyrium-imbued sword blade out of the air. For whatever reason, it hadn't happened yet, and from what Varric could see from his position Justice wasn't even bleeding. Instead, his hands seemed to be shedding crests of light and spitting azure sparks. Just what had the wyrd done to Justice? It was almost as if he had hollowed Anders out from the inside and only wore his body like a cloak. Varric wondered fearfully if his friend was even still alive in any sense of the word.

"We must end this," Wynne muttered. "The wyrd is the true enemy here, not Justice. We are wasting our time and energy against him, and I imagine the creature knows that quite well."

"What can we do?" Varric asked desperately. "How do we force the wyrd out into the open? We can't kill Blondie. I mean... it would probably work, and the wyrd would come after us with its attack dog out of the picture, but..."

His face twisted in dismay. Wynne placed a reassuring hand on Varric's shoulder.

"I do not intend to kill Anders or Justice," she said calmly. "I still believe it is possible to bring him back to himself. We will very likely need his help against the wyrd."

"Well, what then?" Varric urged. "How can I help? Tell me what I can do."

"You have tar bombs, correct?"

"Yes," Varric said.

Wynne smiled. "Good. I will instruct the others to back away from Justice and give you room to throw it. Wait for my signal, and then try to aim it for his chest – we do not want him suffocating on tar and panicking him into releasing catastrophic magic that might knock us all out of the Fade."

"Okay," Varric said nervously, drawing out a tar bomb and gripping it tightly. He affixed it to the head of a bolt and loaded it into Bianca. In his mind, he ran over and over again through the precise aiming technique he would use and the compensation for the weight of the flask and its contents that would be necessary to take into account.

"Friends!" Wynne called. "Back away from Justice! Keep him at a distance!"

Justice threw a suspicious glare at the mage over his shoulder. He turned around a few times as Eingana, Fenris, Aveline, and Isabela retreated, his shoulders hunched and his arms spread in a defensive stance. Justice's face was twisted with battle rage, and he reminded Varric so much of Hawke that it was startling.

Wynne spread her arms and began to cast a spell. Off to one side, Merrill had revived the Unspoken and helped both he and Cullen to their feet, and the three of them stood watching intently. Merrill had her staff raised, ready to throw up a shield should it become necessary. The Unspoken had darted in to retrieve his bladed staff at some point and seemed eager to rejoin the battle, but the difficulty in attacking in between Aveline, Fenris, Eingana, and Isabela had kept him in check thus far. Cullen, however, hadn't yet recovered his sword and shield; instead he had drawn two long daggers from sheaths at his waist.

Justice was staring at Wynne, trying to work out what he was doing. Eingana and Fenris menaced him with their weapons when he tried to advance.

"Get ready, Varric," Wynne murmured. Varric raised Bianca and took careful aim, whispering the lyrics of her song to himself. _Compensate for the weight of the flask... aim for the torso, try to direct the burst to avoid his face..._

A split second before Wynne completed her spell, Justice seemed to realize what she was about to do. He bellowed with rage and threw his hands out to either side, releasing an omnidirectional wave of magic that shook the entire wasteland. Eingana, Isabela, Fenris, and Aveline all cried out in pain and collapsed to their knees as the energy washed over them.

"Now, Varric!" Wynne cried as she brought her staff down in a sweeping arc, and Varric fired.

As the bolt-affixed tar bomb left Bianca's frame, it burst with a radiant emerald glow. The flask hadn't shattered, Varric realized: Wynne had done something to it.

For a few seconds as it sailed through the air, Varric watched his missile's progress with a curious sense that time had slowed to a crawl. He saw the fragile glass shatter against Justice's chest, the possessed mage's hands coming up an instant to late to deflect the missile. At once channeled fingers of tar raced out and ensnared Justice, wrapping him in spasming bands and coils of ebony gunk that glimmered here and there with interwoven emerald threads. The tar snaked its way between Justice's neck and the collar he wore.

Then Justice's shockwave reached him, and Varric screamed. He dropped Bianca, falling to one knee and then onto his side as a horrific, itching pain seared across his flesh, beneath his clothes. He pawed frantically at himself, trying to assuage the intolerable sensation. It wouldn't go away.

A few eternal, unbearable seconds later, a second shockwave thundered over Varric, and this time it brought blessed darkness and absolute silence.

_Yes,_ Varric thought dimly. _I just need to... stop for a few moments. Catch my breath. Rest my eyes._ Gratefully, he stopped struggling.

**ασυνέχεια**

Anders dreamed, still.

He had lost count of the days and nights that had passed in this strange meadow between worlds. The sun and moon raced each other in the skies above, the moon inevitably fading into invisibility as it neared its brighter sister. Time was passing so quickly – and the rate of its passage seemed to be speeding up – that Anders, in the back of his mind, had started to notice the seasonal drift of the ecliptic. The sun's path across the sky had sagged considerably since Anders had first become aware; the sun itself no longer reached nearly as high into the celestial vault as it had mere hours ago, and it stayed above the horizon for less time.

All this was peripheral, however, as the center of Anders's attention remained, as it always would, on Hawke. The other man had Anders pinned in the grass, but for the mage it wasn't painful or frightening. Hawke only ever exerted enough pressure to keep him immobilized while they kissed, and he supported some of his weight with his knees on either side of Anders's waist so he wouldn't crush his lover.

Anders could only see the wheeling stars overhead at the very edges of his vision. The warrior's face filled most of his field of view. His warmth and his weight were deeply, intimately comforting, and every feathery touch of his lips provoked intoxicating bliss. Anders might have been floating for all he noticed the grassy plain beneath him.

Every now and then, he caught a glimpse of the red ribbon that still stretched across the sky. Every time he did, a twinge of unease sparked deep inside Anders, somewhere out of reach. He didn't want to think about that ribbon, or what it represented. He wished it would go away so he wouldn't have to see it ever, even by accident.

Once, Anders tried asking Hawke if he could get rid of the ribbon, or at least make it hide somewhere out of sight. He was somewhat nervous about talking at all, though he wasn't quite sure why. Hawke had released one of his hands to softly stroke the side of his face and whispered to him, his voice seeming to well up from within Anders's own mind rather than from Hawke's chest: _Focus on me, love. Only on me. Ignore everything else._

Anders tried to do as Hawke had suggested, and it mostly worked. He managed to put the ribbon out of his mind for the time being.

Unfortunately, there was something else: a voice at the outermost edge of his awareness. It was talking to him, asking him for something. Anders couldn't tell what it was, for though he got the sense the voice was positively screaming for his attention, all he could hear was a vague, distant murmur. It was deeply irritating, like a gnat buzzing around his head and ears that wouldn't go away no matter how many times he swatted at it.

Anders tried his hardest to shake off the voice and ignore it, too. He concentrated on Hawke's lips, his tongue, the moist heat of the warrior's breath on his neck. It was futile; the voice was insistent, and though it was all but unheard, it was determined not to be unnoticed.

Then Anders saw something that finally, for a few minutes at least, managed to draw his mind away from the voice. It was in the sky.

At that point the heavens were spinning crazily, almost out of control but for their graceful, implacable regularity and noticeable patterns. The sun flashed past in a heartbeat, and reappeared a moment later after an eyeblink night. Time was speeding by so quickly that the sun appeared more like a bright, blazing line across the sky than a discrete shining object. Strangely, closer to the ground, time seemed to be passing at a more normal rate. It seemed subjectively normal to Anders, at least. The breeze was gentle and the murmur of the grass was soothing.

Still, he couldn't help noticing that the moon was growing ever nearer the sun, inching closer and closer to intersecting the ecliptic. With time racing by at the breakneck speed it currently was, the moon hurtled through the sky as fast as the stars did; in the surreal environment of his dream, however, Anders's eyes were quick and sharp enough to pick it out every time it swept by. Its phase changed noticeably from moment to moment, snapping from invisibility through to crescent, quarter, gibbous, and full, and then back to gibbous, quarter, crescent, and new.

The wondrous display tugged at a deeply buried memory somewhere in Anders's mind. He had a flash of sitting in a large, open room somewhere – a tower? – surrounded by books and other people, dressed in flowing robes and watched carefully by sinister armoured figures. Anders could remember hardly anything about the book he'd been reading other than the page associated with what he was seeing, the diagrams that had provoked the memory.

Hawke was nuzzling into the hollow of Anders's shoulder, sucking gently on his neck. It was difficult to think through the strange, heady pleasure the sensation gave him. Anders stared up at the moon anyway, his eyes following its lightning-quick motions and digging at that memory, trying to uncover the fleeting knowledge because it distracted him from the annoyance of the buzzing voice.

The moon was currently dashing along just beneath the line of fire that was the sun. Though it whipped past with the rest of the sky with every iteration of the flashing day-night-day-night cycle, the moon's long-term, comparatively slower motions were obvious to Anders's heightened perception. He watched it lazily, looking for the pattern he knew he was missing by a hair of memory, basking in Hawke's attention and working at the problem with his subconscious so he could ignore the insistent voice.

Then it came to him. Soon – within a few weeks of objective time, less than a minute from now – the moon would cross the ecliptic at the exact moment the sun occupied the same position in the celestial sphere. There would then be a total eclipse, and day would briefly become night.

Anders was excited. He realized that he and Hawke would probably barely even notice the event except as a brief flicker of irregularity in the madness of the cosmic cycle whirling above and around them. Still, it was a rare spectacle of natural beauty, and he wanted to share it with Hawke.

"Michael," Anders whispered, nudging Hawke's shoulder with his hand that the warrior hadn't restrained at the wrist. "Get off me for a second. There's going to be an eclipse."

Hawke made an inquisitive noise, lifting his head and smiling down at Anders. The mage saw his lover smile so rarely that his heart melted with love every time Hawke looked at him in this place.

"C'mon," Anders whispered, pushing at Hawke's shoulder insistently. "Lie on your back and look at the sky. It'll be amazing."

Hawke planted a soft, wordless kiss on his lips and did as requested. They lay together in the swaying grass, hands intertwined, staring into the turbulent heavens.

Anders twisted himself around so he could lay his head on Hawke's stomach. He turned his head down to kiss the skin of the warrior's chest affectionately. Hawke brushed some hair out of Anders's eyes with his free hand.

"Watch," Anders said. "The moon will pass in front of the sun... it's incredible. I've seen it once before in my life and it was the most amazing thing."

Hawke squeezed his hand. Anders could feel his chest moving up and down with the calm cycle of his breathing. He could almost hear the rhythmic thud of his lover's heartbeat. He was at peace, and the feeling was far more incredible than any eclipse he'd seen or ever would see. The muttering voice at the back of his mind was all but extinguished.

Anders wanted to say so to Hawke, but the warrior hushed him with a gentle finger on his lips. He pointed up.

The instant the invisible moon kissed the edge of the solar disk, time slowed to a near-standstill. The celestial grind slowed jarringly with the passage of time, back to normal for this climactic event.

Anders watched in awe-struck silence as, over several minutes, the sun disappeared behind an empty black circle. The brightness of day around them, so fleeting only minutes before, gradually dimmed into an otherworldly twilight. Stars and planets popped here and there.

At the moment of totality, when the sun and moon had merged into a ring of fire surrounding a core of unbroken darkness, Anders realized that some of the stars he could see formed a bright, razor-sharp edge that arched across the zenith from one horizon to the other. In one corner of the sky, the eclipse hung perfectly centered on the band of stars like a sable jewel on some vain god's glittering circlet.

"Michael," Anders whispered, moved to tears by the profound beauty of what he was witnessing. "I love you."

Hawke didn't respond, but he did squeeze Anders's hand. Anders didn't want to take his eyes off the spectacular sight in the sky, but he wanted to kiss Hawke more than he wanted to keep looking at it. He leaned over, rolling onto his side and supporting himself on a shoulder, shifting his arm so he wouldn't crush Hawke's wrist.

Their mouths connected. Anders parted his lips to admit Hawke's tongue. He settled onto his stomach, holding himself up with his arms beneath his chest as they kissed. Hawke's arm snaked up to grasp the back of his head and bury itself in his hair. Their bodies were at right angles to one another, connected by the hot press of lips and the erotic dance of tongues.

Anders knew the eclipse had ended when time accelerated wildly once again, and the ceaseless flash of day and night resumed. He barely noticed and didn't care at all. He was with Hawke, Hawke was kissing him, and they were at peace. They were happy. That was all that mattered.

"Anders," Justice said. "Get up."

Anxiety surged unpleasantly through Anders's gut. He felt an upwelling of corrosive hatred as a pulse of heat through his core and along his limbs. The voice hadn't been gone at all. It had been gathering itself, callously advancing while Anders was distracted, experiencing a moment of ecstatic connection and love with Hawke.

_Bastard_, Anders seethed_. Meddling, Maker-damned bastard._

"Anders," Justice said again. The mage could feel the harsh, crackling energy of the spirit's presence, looming in the grass a meter beyond Hawke's feet.

"Go away, Justice," Anders ground out. He lifted himself from Hawke's mouth and rolled away, tugging on Hawke's muscular arm to bring him along. Hawke got the hint and shifted around with him, climbing back on top of Anders and straddling his waist. Their lips reconnected.

"Anders, I need your help."

Anders growled angrily and looked over at the spirit. In this world of dreams, Justice took the form of a shining, armoured figure. He appeared badly wounded, his armour heavily scratched and dented and splattered with blood. One arm hung limp and useless, crippled, and he favoured one leg, supporting most of his weight on the other.

Justice reached up stiffly with his uninjured arm and pulled off his helmet. His face was indistinct, his features blurred, but what Anders could see was strong-jawed, bright-eyed, handsome. Bruises and abrasions marred Justice's ethereal skin. A horrible gash split one cheek, the side of his jaw and continued down his neck. His nose dripped blood liberally over his lips and chin.

Anders felt only weariness looking at Justice. He had been fighting for so long. He had tried so hard to bring justice to the mages of Kirkwall. He'd given everything he had and more. His successes had been few and paltry, nebulous. He wanted to rest. He wanted to be with Hawke.

Anders looked back at his lover as Hawke trailed an affectionate finger down his cheek.

"Michael," Anders murmured contentedly. His eyes drifted closed as Hawke leaned down to kiss him again.

"Anders!" Justice was still there. The stubborn bastard! Anders tried to push down his anger, but as Justice kept talking, it continued to simmer and bubble just beneath the surface of peaceful calm, wearing it down.

"You must get up!" Justice demanded. "I cannot fight him alone."

"Justice, _please_," Anders groaned around Hawke's lips. "Just stop, alright? I don't _want_ to fight him. Can you seriously not see that? Look!"

"Anders, that is _not_ Michael Hawke," Justice growled.

Anders snorted incredulously. "What are you talking about? Of course it is. Look at him!"

"Fool!" Justice shouted in exasperation. "Look into his eyes!"

Anders snarled his frustration, but some niggling doubt deep inside him made him listen. He looked up at Hawke. The warrior hadn't reacted at all to the spirit's presence. As far back as Anders could clearly remember, he hadn't even said a word.

Hawke's eyes were the same rich emerald green they had always been, but his pupils were dilating rapidly. For a moment Anders swore he could see a dim spark of crimson at their centers.

Hawke didn't look at peace anymore, either. He had stopped smiling. In fact, he looked angry.

An inexplicable sensation of terror and danger clenched in the pit of Anders's stomach. He shot a panicky glance at Justice.

"Anders," the spirit pleaded, a note of desperation entering his voice. "Please. I cannot fight him alone. Our friends – all of them – have come to free us, _and_ Hawke, but they will die without our help. Do you understand me, Anders? They will_ all die!_"

Anders tried to absorb Justice's words, but his mind had grown hazy and sluggish. It felt like something was actively interfering with his thoughts, and the idea only panicked him into struggling to think more urgently.

Anders didn't want his friends to die, he knew that. They were here to free him... and Hawke... from what? Were they trapped? Anders knew he didn't want that, either.

"Not only that," Justice went on, "but if you do not help me, _both_ of us will be enslaved to this creature, forever! And the one you love – he will be destroyed utterly, twisted and ripped apart and remade as a broken, brittle shell, a soulless husk through which the wyrd will perpetuate acts of incalculable destruction!"

That was definitely bad. Anders was starting to remember things he didn't like. Flashes in his mind illuminated terrible things, forced down into darkness – how long ago, he had no idea.

The nexus. The hub chamber beneath Kirkwall with its glowing lyrium veins and its sigils and its blood channels. The trap Justice had sprung to contain Hawke.

Hawke using him, using Justice in his body...

Distant flashes of unending torment, such agony of so many different flavours that Anders was sure, now, that he must have been broken long ago. Only through Justice's strength had they held on for so long.

Then the final snap, the bowing under the tremendous pressure the wyrd had exerted through Hawke... Hawke mocking him, pretending to be impressed at how long he and Justice had endured. Then enslavement, obedience, suppression.

This was all a lie, Anders realized, and an awful, gaping chasm of despair yawned in his gut, threatening to swallow him whole.

In his mind, he saw himself as if from far away, or Justice using his body, fighting Eingana, and then Wynne... a hurlock Disciple... Aveline, Cullen, Fenris, Isabela, Merrill, and Varric.

They were all there. They had even brought allies, both familiar and strange. They had come into the Fade, taking such a terrible risk, to fight for _him_, and for Hawke. Instead they had been forced to fight _against_ him. How long had this been going on? What had he done to them? Who had he hurt?

For a long, shameful moment, Anders was sorely tempted just to give in. The pain he foresaw over the horizon should he stand up and fight, and be beaten back down again, was unending. If he went with Justice, he might very well be dooming himself and countless others to a limitless Void of suffering.

The thought bloomed in his ravaged mind – _how much worse would it be for Michael?_

_How much worse is it already?_

_How much time is there left before the slim chance we have to save him is gone forever?_

Anders looked into Hawke's eyes. Their familiar, comforting green had dwindled to a fragile annulus surrounding the black pits of his pupils. Their rich colour was almost gone.

Slowly, wearily, Anders tore his gaze away and looked over at Justice. He nodded.

"Yes," he whispered. He looked up at Hawke, tears pooling in his eyes, meaning to apologize, to explain that he had to leave him one last time, just for a little while.

But Hawke was gone. He had evaporated as if he'd never been there at all. Silently, Anders wept.

Justice walked over to him and crouched down at his side. He placed an armoured hand on Anders's forehead. The touch of his spirit companion was soothing and cool. A feeling of steel-hard determination arose in him, and Anders clung to it. He would _not_ give in. He would _not_ go down without a fight.

Justice's intense relief was evident. "Thank you, Anders," he said softly. "I knew you would be strong enough. You always have been. You and I, we will see each other through this. We will weather this storm, we will protect our friends, and we will save Hawke. I promise."

Anders struggled to his feet, accepting Justice's helping hand. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Justice," he said bitterly.

Justice kept a hold of his hand even once Anders was standing. He squeezed it firmly, reassuringly.

"Sound advice," he replied. "But I know we can do this, Anders. I will see justice done. Have faith."

**Ω**


	28. Faith

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Faith"**

When Isabela next opened her eyes, Anders – or was it Justice? – was looming over her, staring, eyes and skin aglow with azure fire. She screamed and scrambled away.

Justice did not pursue her, merely glared as he sat back on his haunches.

"Calm yourself, Isabela," the spirit said irritably. "I will not attack."

His deep voice echoed across a vast emptiness. Isabela glanced around nervously, noting that the ash-choked wasteland had disappeared. She was still in the Fade, however – the white gloom around her could be nowhere else.

"Yes," Isabela muttered, recovering what dignity she could and trying to calm her pounding heart. "Noticed that. The not attacking. Keep that up – it's a big improvement. Maybe also cut back on the hovering right over people's faces when you've just been viciously trying to kill them? Just saying."

Justice made a sarcastic face at her – no, that had definitely looked more like Anders. Which of the two was in control? Were they alternating back and forth, or was it some strange blend of both spirit and mage, as it had seemed with Wynne?

Seeing that she was awake and uninjured, Justice moved on to rouse the others. Isabela got gingerly to her feet, shaking off the last vestiges of the horrible itch that had consumed the last waking moments she remembered before now. Justice had done something to her and to the others just before Wynne and Varric had executed their spell/tar bomb combo – something excruciating and invasively _nasty_. Whatever it was, at least it was over now. And Justice and Anders appeared to be sane once again, or as collectively sane as they had ever been. That wasn't exactly reassuring, but at least he had stopped trying to kill them all.

On her feet and possessing a semblance of self-control once more, Isabela examined her surroundings more closely. She and Justice, as well as the others – all accounted for, Isabela noted with relief, though so far she and the mage were the only ones awake – had traded one flat, featureless expanse for another.

They were in what looked like an immense, deserted cathedral, far larger than even the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux was reputed to be. The floor was polished white flagstones, extending outwards in a radial pattern centered a few meters away. The stones grew progressively in size with increasing distance from the epicenter; where Isabela was standing they weren't much larger than twice the size of her foot. Gargantuan pillars, the nearest at least a kilometer away, supported an identical ceiling, which was so dizzyingly high overhead that it might have been a strange, artificial sky. The landscape was empty as far as Isabela could see, which wasn't much farther than the closest gigantic pillars. Beyond them, the light faded into hazy brightness.

Looking out into than open endlessness made Isabela feel tiny and uncomfortably vertiginous, so she focused instead on her immediate vicinity. She noticed with wry amusement that Cullen was sprawled rather gracelessly on his back. The templar would no doubt be disappointed that he would have to get to his feet in heavy plate armour after all, in spite of his clever precaution of wearing light clothing during the ritual. His current position, of course, was by no means unappealing to Isabela. Unfortunately, the circumstances were not exactly conducive to a playful romp.

A gleam of metal caught Isabela's eye. There was something on the floor at the epicenter of the flagstones' radial pattern, inches from Cullen's head. Upon closer inspection, Isabela realized that it was the collar Justice had been wearing in the ash field. She was intensely glad to see that the runes that had once danced along its surface, aglow with violet light, were now static and dead. She felt immediately safer and much more convinced about Justice's relative sanity.

Isabela turned to see what Justice was doing. He had roused Wynne and Merrill, and the two mages were now helping him revive the others. Intending to help, Isabela made for the nearest unconscious person, which was Varric. She had no magic, and it might take magic to wake up a person who was sleeping in the Fade – how did that even work? But she might as well try, for she felt useless just standing around gaping at her surroundings.

"Varric," Isabela said, kneeling next to him and shaking his shoulder gently. "Wake up, man."

Magic was apparently not required, as it only took a few more shakes and a gentle slap or two for the unconscious dwarf to groan and stir. Abruptly, Varric leapt fully into consciousness, grabbing Isabela by the shoulders and yelling "What! What!"

"Relax!" Isabela exclaimed, and Varric did so marginally. "We're still in the Fade. Anders isn't crazy anymore. I mean, Justice isn't..." She huffed. "I mean, they're back to normal."

Varric released Isabela with an apologetic grunt and clambered to his feet. "Well, good. So... we were all unconscious, then," he said, looking around. The others had all been roused by Justice, Wynne, and Merrill, and were in varying stages of returning to complete awareness. Fenris was rubbing his eyes and shaking off the last vestiges of unconsciousness; the Unspoken was staring around suspiciously, but he paused to listen as Eingana said something to him in a discreet whisper.

"Either that, or everything got really quiet and dark for awhile, and we all took a simultaneous mental holiday," Isabela said.

"Uh huh. But we're in the Fade," Varric said slowly, turning back to Isabela. "Technically we're asleep already. How can that work?"

"I wondered the same thing."

"Stupid humans and their internally inconsistent dreamworld," Varric muttered. Isabela laughed at him.

The two of them moved a little closer to join the others, all of whom were now on their feet except for Aveline, who was in the midst of accepting a hand up from Cullen. She gave him a nod of thanks after she had regained her feet and turned to Justice.

"Are you going to be able to control yourself?" she asked flatly.

"Straight to the point as always, Guard-Captain," Varric commented. Aveline ignored him, staring at the possessed mage and waiting.

"Yes," Justice said shortly. Aveline seemed unconvinced, so he went on, "When Hawke and I were drawn into the Fade, the wyrd created perceptual barriers between Anders and myself. Anders was kept in a compliant fugue and I was... _collared_ into obedience, as you saw." He indicated the shattered collar on the floor of the cathedral with a jerk of his hand. "When the flask enchanted of tar hit me, those barriers were dissolved. Wynne's spell allowed me to revive Anders from his fugue, and together we have broken free of the wyrd's control." He nodded to Wynne and Varric.

"Happy to help," Varric said. Wynne merely smiled. Her skin shed a soft, warm aura in the pellucid ambience of the cathedral.

"And what now?" Aveline asked. "Will the creature attack us?"

"Undoubtedly," Justice said. "My respite is only temporary. It will not allow Anders and me to remain free of its control for long. When it comes to reclaim us, we must strike it down, whatever the cost. We will have one chance and one chance only. If we fail..."

He trailed off threateningly.

"Yes, we get it," Isabela said. "Doom."

Justice stared at her with narrowed eyes. "Nothing less – for all of you. For Anders and myself, for Michael Hawke, and for the city of Kirkwall, to expect the mercy of death at this point is frankly ludicrous."

"Oh," Isabela said in a slightly higher-pitched voice than usual.

The Unspoken suddenly growled a warning, lifting his hand to point. The clustered dreamers looked where his clawed finger indicated, almost directly above them.

Merrill gasped. Isabela was inclined to agree with the sentiment: the pattern of arranged stones in the high ceiling was _changing_. The stones were shifting, sliding outwards in outright defiance of the laws of the physical world they reflected. The radial pattern was expanding as if it was composed of ripples on the surface of a pond rather than solid rock.

After a split second of surreal silence, in which awe and unease rendered everyone mute, a vast and distant grinding noise reached Isabela's ears. It sounded like a cartwheel crunching over gravel, but a thousand times larger. As they watched, darkness gradually bloomed in the emptiness from which the stones at the epicenter of the pattern were radiating. Isabela was reminded of a full moon on a clear night, except the bright and dark areas were inverted. The idea made her head spin.

"It comes," Justice intoned. "Our time is nearly up."

"What?" Varric said, a little panicky. "The wyrd's coming _now_?"

"Yes," the Unspoken said hoarsely. "The creature, it is arriving here – minutes from now. Are you not feeling it?"

"Should I be?" Varric demanded. "I'm not a mage or a darkspawn."

The hole that was opening in the sky had become an oculus. Isabela could see the edges of the flagstones grinding around its edges as it continued to expand. A familiar line of stars glimmered across its diameter.

"They are right, Varric," Wynne said softly. "Michael and the wyrd approach. I... am having trouble telling one from the other."

_Shit_, Isabela thought. Was it too late? Had all this been for nothing? She refused to believe that. _Come on, Hawke... hold on a little longer_.

"Shouldn't we..." Varric seemed frustrated. "I don't know, come up with some kind of plan? Discuss strategy, _something_?"

"Here is the strategy," Justice said. "When Hawke attacks, attack him back, and try not to die."

"Thanks for that, Justice," Varric said sarcastically. "My confidence _soars_ with the knowledge that we have such a brilliant tactician as you to guide us."

"I have a question," Eingana said, staring up into the void yawning in the ceiling. "Should we be trying to kill him, or just get him under control? There's not much point in pulling our punches, so to speak, if there is no means by which the wyrd may be separated from Hawke and thereby killed without harming him."

Justice was moodily silent. Isabela, Varric, Merrill, Aveline, and Cullen looked from the gaping oculus to the spirit. Above them, one of the stars took on a red glint and began to brighten steadily.

"I promised Anders I would try to save him," Justice said eventually, regretfully. "But I do not see any way that it can be done."

"I do," Wynne spoke up. At once, all eyes moved to her.

"Speak quickly," Justice urged. "We have but moments."

"First, let us try to talk to Michael," Wynne said. "It is a long shot, but as long as he does not attack immediately, I see no harm in trying."

Justice scoffed. "That is a waste of time. Hawke is all but lost within the wyrd. His personality may have metastasized throughout it, but harbour no illusions that the creature who may choose to speak to us is Michael Hawke, or that it would do so for any reason other than its own amusement."

"I see no harm in trying," Wynne repeated. Her voice was quiet, but firm.

Justice made an indifferent gesture. The crimson star visible through the hole in the ceiling had brightened to the point where it was obviously no farther away than the oculus itself, and was in fact descending towards them.

"Once he attacks – as he very probably will," Wynne went on, "do not hold yourselves back, but do not attempt any killing blows either. Doing so will only provoke him into savage retaliation. Instead, try to wear Michael down – inflict injuries wherever and however you can that shy away from outright lethality. It is to our benefit that the he be injured, at least superficially."

"It was my understanding that doing so only encouraged the creature," Fenris stated. "Before all this started, Hawke was the same way. Wounding him only made him angrier."

"Correct," Wynne said grimly. "This is why we must all be exceptionally careful, and prioritize defense over offense. The more injured Michael is, the more dangerous he will become, but he will also draw more and more on the wyrd's power rather than on his own strength – and that is how we will lure it out."

That made sense, in a suicidally dangerous kind of way, Isabela mused. She burned to ask just how Wynne planned on "luring out" the wyrd if it had already more-or-less merged with Hawke, and what in the Maker's name they were supposed to do once it appeared.

But the discussion was over because they were out of time. The fiery crimson star was plummeting towards them from the abyss that now yawned over half the visible ceiling. It seemed not only to accelerate as it fell, but also to brighten; when it was several dozen meters over their heads, it had become too brilliant to look at directly.

"Scatter!" Justice shouted, and Isabela turned and ran. The others followed suit, spreading out in all directions from where Justice's collar lay broken at the center of the flagstone pattern.

Isabela hadn't gotten more than a few paces before the world suddenly exploded with bloody light. What felt like a wave of molasses-thick heat washed over the pirate, briefly choking her and sending her crashing painfully to her knees. She sensed rather than heard the presence of the man that had touched down behind her.

"Still," Hawke said in a tired, disappointed voice. "Still you fight. Even here, you fight! You come to bother us _here_, in your dreams, even knowing they will only end in nightmares! I might admire your persistence and your loyalty if it weren't so _fucking aggravating_!"

Isabela, in the midst of pushing herself to her feet, was slammed hard back against the stone floor by an angry wall of force that fell on her from above. She let out a gasp of pain, and she heard several of the others do the same around and behind her. Isabela could almost feel the vibration in the flagstones as Cullen's armour _clanged_ against them.

"Why?" Hawke cried. "Why do you persist where you are not wanted? Why must you continually try to tear us apart?"

The raw pain in his voice clawed bitterly at Isabela's heart. _It's not him,_ she told herself determinedly. _It's _not_ him... the real Hawke would want to be free_. She tried again to get to her feet, and this time bands of wicked, red-hot magic wrapped themselves tightly around her limbs and yanked her into the air.

"_Get up_!" Hawke bellowed. "Face me!"

Isabela spun, and as she did so she caught sight of the others, all similarly ensnared. Hawke stood at the epicenter of the pattern, looking startlingly normal in his loose trousers, light cotton short-sleeved shirt, and bare feet. His hair was combed and his beard was trimmed. His eyes were bright green and entirely human. The only obvious aberrances about him were the nasty bladed claws sprouting from his fingers, and the bands of crackling energy he held which kept all ten of his assailants bound and hovering in a rough circle around him.

Isabela struggled as hard as she could to free herself, but her efforts were useless. The energy wasn't painful, but its heat was uncomfortable and its solidity utterly immovable. Isabela could do nothing but squirm futilely; the magic might have been carved granite for all the give she could coax from it. Glancing around, Isabela could see the others weren't having much luck, either. Wynne and Merrill were trying various spells to counter the wyrd's magic, but Hawke's mere presence seemed to effectively nullify their every effort.

"I am so tired of these games," the warrior muttered, and he really did sound tired. He sounded exhausted.

Out of the corner of her eye, Isabela noticed a faint blue glow of annulment magic around Cullen's hands. Hope flickered in her, but she dared not look more closely just yet.

Hawke was turning in a slow circle, examining everyone who had assembled to fight him. He didn't seem at all surprised to see Wynne, Cullen, or even the hurlock Disciple. When his eyes lingered for a moment on Isabela, she could almost feel his gaze sweeping over her body like a beam of piercing light. It was as if Hawke could see through her clothes and her skin, right into the core of her body. Isabela could feel his stare in her mind with almost greater intensity than she could see it with her own eyes. Never in her life had the pirate felt so utterly and thoroughly _seen_. It was a disturbing experience, and the condescending smirk Hawke gave her before his gaze moved on was worse – as if he had witnessed and understood the entire truth of her in a moment, and found her wanting. Isabela felt unsettled and inexplicably defensive, and for a moment she even forgot the burn of the magic at her wrists and ankles.

With Hawke looking elsewhere, Isabela snuck a glance in Cullen's direction. The templar was having some success rebuffing the writhing magical ropes that held him suspended a meter in the air – the deep red energy was continually trying to contract around Cullen's gauntlets, but it shied away from the blue aura every time. At the moment, it was only barely suppressed, and it remained potent enough to keep Cullen trapped.

Isabela had seen him exert far more supernatural muscle against demons in Kirkwall than he was now bringing to bear. Why hold back? Why didn't Cullen free himself?

Isabela managed to catch Cullen's gaze and tried to ask the question with her eyes. He made a subtle gesture with his head and eyebrows towards Hawke, who was now facing away from the templar and drawing Justice towards him. Isabela understood: Cullen was waiting for the right moment to attack.

"Anders," Hawke said, almost petulantly. He reached out as his power drew the mage nearer, but the affectionate gesture was rather ruined by the brutal spikes sticking out of his fingertips – a few of which, Isabela noticed with a surge of nausea, were crusted with old blood. The bands of magic that held up the others fell away from Hawke's hands to swirl around his feet; their grip did not let up at all, as Isabela made sure to conclusively determine.

"Why did you leave?" Hawke whined as Justice came to a halt and hovered in front of him. He lifted his hand to stroke the mage's cheek with a single claw and tilted his head. "We were happy in that place, weren't we? Didn't I make you happy? Didn't I give you everything you've ever wanted?"

Justice glowered at him in silence, and then, slowly, the azure power shining from within his dream-self began to recede. The rifts covering his body closed, their otherworldly light winked out. His skin became less translucent, more tangible. And the vibrant glow in his eyes dimmed until finally Anders's natural honey-brown showed through.

"Michael," Anders said. "I..."

He trailed off. He looked miserable.

"You were happy, weren't you?" Hawke demanded. "_Weren't_ you?"

When Anders remained silent, Hawke lashed out at him in a rage, slicing a deep gouge into the mage's cheek. Anders recoiled as far as he could within the limits of his bonds, blinking away tears of pain. Isabela winced in sympathy.

"_Answer me_!" Hawke raged.

"I was happy," Anders said. Blood flowed freely from the gash.

"Then why did you leave?"

All at once, Justice surged to the surface, radiating power and struggling violently against the magic that held him in check. The crackling energy that poured forth from his very skin healed the wound on his cheek in an instant.

"Because it was false!" Justice shouted back, wrenching himself forward ineffectually as far as he could and getting in Hawke's face. "It was a lie! Fight it, Hawke, _fight_ it! This is not you!"

Hawke sighed and ground his teeth together. He folded his arms.

"I could have given you everything you ever wanted," he stated.

"No," Justice growled. "You could not have."

"And why not?"

"Because what I want," Justice said, "is _freedom_ – for me, for all mages, and for Michael Hawke as well."

Hawke rolled his eyes and turned away. "Nobody is ever free, Justice," he said softly without looking at the spirit. He pushed Justice back out to his place in the circle with a negligent wave of his hand.

Isabela watched with mounting tension as Hawke's gaze roved around the circle of dreamers he had so effectively subdued. Aveline, Eingana, Wynne, Merrill, and Varric had all but given up on trying to free themselves from the wyrd's magic, which held them securely in place – though Aveline looked somewhat put out by the fact. Fenris persisted in yanking and twisting stubbornly against his bonds, glaring daggers when Hawke glanced his way. Hawke sneered back.

"Meet anyone interesting lately, Fenris?" the warrior asked insinuatingly. "Your lyrium smells different."

"What?" Fenris asked, momentarily startled into stillness. Hawke laughed nastily at him and clenched his fist. The magic keeping Fenris aloft suddenly contracted, forcing the elf's arms around behind his back and eliciting a cry of pain and anger. Hawke was already looking somewhere else.

Like most of the others, the Unspoken had given up actively trying to maneuver himself free of the bands around his wrists and ankles. Curiously, however, instead of relaxing, he seemed to have set himself comfortably into a continuous strain. The hurlock's arms were extended out behind him, pulling against his restrains as far as they would allow with unrelenting pressure. It looked like a lot of effort to maintain, but the Unspoken's bestial face showed no signs of stress or discomfort.

Hawke examined the Unspoken with a kind of vague, disinterested curiosity for a few moments before moving on. His eyes fell on Isabela and, for a moment, it seemed they would slide right on past.

_Don't look at me, don't look at me,_ Isabela chanted in her mind.

As if he had heard her thoughts, Hawke's gaze snapped back to the pirate and a frightening smile crept over his face. Isabela bit back a curse.

"Ah, Isabela," Hawke murmured, reaching out for her and making a "come here" gesture. Isabela felt herself pulled forward by the itchy heat of the magic at her ankles and wrists. Frantically, she renewed her struggles – she had no desire for those vicious claws to be any closer to her face or her body than they already were. It was no use.

"If you're thinking of making some witty remark about how I'm here, instead of having fled the city, don't bother," Isabela snarked as the magic drew her to a halt in front of Hawke. "There's nothing you can say that I haven't already wondered myself."

Hawke gave her a feral grin and ran the tip of one claw lightly along her throat. Isabela tensed, frozen with fear, not even daring to breath. If Hawke's claw advanced even a fraction of a centimeter forward...

"Poor, stupid pirate," Hawke said softly. "So confused and frightened, utterly lost... no _idea_ how to deal with all these strange sensations going on in your head... what are they? Feelings? _Affection_? Surely not! Even outright _concern_ for someone other than herself!" He gasped in mock outrage. "Are you quite sure it's not _you_ who is possessed, Isabela?"

"Shut up!" Isabela cried, stung less by Hawke's words than by the fact that she understood the grim reasoning behind them. "You don't know me, you stupid demon, or wyrd, or whatever the fuck you are."

Hawke's claw whispered along under her chin, drawing her forward. Isabela's skin crawled at the prickling sensation, and her discomfort only worsened when Hawke leaned in close and inhaled smoothly along her jaw.

"But I _do_ know you, my dear 'Bela," he whispered. "And you... know very well who _I_ am."

Isabela shuddered. The moist heat of Hawke's breath caressed her neck.

"Stop it," she snapped, annoyed that the fear and disgust in her voice were bitterly obvious. "Get away from me!"

"Oh, you don't mean that," Hawke murmured. "You smell so good... and your heart is just _pounding_..."

He moaned. Isabela felt Hawke's lips moving against the skin of her throat, and while under ordinary circumstances the idea of the warrior kissing her there would have made her tingly and aroused, all she felt now was panicky revulsion. The bristly sensation of his beard, instead of exciting her, felt like moist, hairy caterpillars crawling across her neck.

"_Stop_," Isabela said again, as forcefully as she could – but it came out as more of a whine than an assertive demand. She shivered under Hawke's touch, fighting the rapidly intensifying urge to scream. Isabela was leaning as far away from Hawke as she could and kicking against her restraints with all her strength, but his unwanted attention was inexorable.

"You're terrified," Hawke breathed in her ear, and she whimpered and cringed away from the wet sensation of his tongue. "Much more so than any of the others. It's... _intoxicating_. Very difficult to ignore. I think..."

He paused thoughtfully, gripping her by the chin as he sniffed around behind her ear, running his nose through her hair. Isabela squeezed her eyes shut in horror as Hawke's claws danced along her upper cheek.

"Yes," Hawke muttered. "I think I shall kill you – last."

"No!" Isabela screamed. "Get off, get _off_, get away from me! Please, Maker, somebody _do something_!"

A tremor rippled through the Fade all around them as Cullen let out a battle cry, simultaneously leaping free of his bonds with a burst of annulment magic and charging at Hawke from behind.

Hawke staggered forward as the templar shield-bashed him hard in the upper back. Released from his grip, Isabela began to drift back through the air towards the circle on the current of the wyrd's magic. She was gasping for breath and writhing hysterically against her restraints, still trying to shake off the intimate horror of Hawke's touch and his words. By the time she had gathered enough of herself to look back towards the center of the circle, Hawke had turned around and was backhanding Cullen savagely across the face. The force of the blow sent Cullen flying backwards with a crash. His armour scraped gratingly as he skidded across flagstones.

"Cullen!" Isabela yelled, but he was already stirring, groaning in pain. His face was a mess of blood and bruises, and one of his eyes was swelling shut; still Cullen clambered unsteadily to his feet.

Wynne and Justice were both afire with powerful magic, fighting with all their might to push back the wyrd's snare. Justice's fury had blown his restraints away from his body, but Hawke had responded by simply doubling, trebling, quadrupling the strength of his magic. The crackling bands divided and intensified again and again, squirming around and through the spirit's defenses, and Justice was forced to sustain the storm of his power against the wyrd's renewed onslaught to avoid being crushed. Thus far, it seemed only Cullen's annulment magic had any lasting effect on dispelling the restraints.

"Cullen, look out!" Wynne called urgently. Tendrils of red energy were slithering out of the stones all around the dazed templar, creeping towards him with clear predatory intent. Hawke prowled around him carefully, shoulders hunched, face twisted in bestial hunger, claws spread and ready to lash out.

"Templar's got some teeth," Hawke taunted softly. "I knew they must have brought you here for _some_ reason, _Knight-Captain_, other than looking pretty in your shiny plate."

He spoke Cullen's rank contemptuously, as if it were a vile insult. When he continued, Hawke's voice had taken on a distinct resonance. "Who would have thought that our power could be so easily turned aside by the pitiful exertions of an armoured monk, poisoned all his life with lyrium? We certainly can't allow such an offense to reoccur."

He flared his fingers in a casting gesture. The crimson tendrils swarming ominously around Cullen and penning him in subsided. Hawke moved in, easily batting the templar's desperately raised sword right out of his grip. Almost before it clattered to the floor near Wynne's feet, Hawke's hand flashed out, wrapping firmly around Cullen's neck and lifting him, armour and all, into the air. Cullen tugged on Hawke's wrist and kicked his feet, but to no avail. He hammered his shield against Hawke's shoulder and neck; Hawke seemed not even to notice the assault.

"Release him, Hawke!" Justice thundered. The power in his voice was sufficiently intense as to release a spreading, noticeable ripple through the surrounding Fadescape. "Release us all, and let us do battle on even footing!"

Hawke laughed. "No."

He began to squeeze. Cullen's face reddened as he fought to breathe. He dropped his shield with a _clang_, fighting to loosen Hawke's grip with both hands. All the considerable strength he could exert and the metal of his gauntlets combined barely made an impression in Hawke's bare forearm.

"Let him go, you piece of shit!" Isabela yelled.

A sudden change came over Hawke's face, as if something only he could see had taken him by surprise. He glanced curiously over his shoulder at Isabela, and then pulled the squirming templar closer to him. He sniffed suspiciously, and the corners of his mouth turned upward in a smug smirk.

"Cullen," Hawke said mirthfully, "are you _wearing my clothes?_"

Cullen couldn't have answered if he wanted to. His face was bright red, and he was perceptibly weakening. Hawke laughed uproariously. Nobody else saw the humour, least of all Isabela.

"Now that's... strangely hot," Hawke mused when he'd recovered himself. "I think, Cullen, that if you perchance survive the next few seconds, I will kill you – _second_ last. Yes..."

His smile became decidedly sadistic as he threw a glance in Isabela's direction. Isabela glared back hatefully through tears, mute with horror and near despair over her complete inability to do anything.

Then, on the other side of Hawke and Cullen from the pirate, Merrill let out a whimpering grunt of pain and spat. A torrent of blood magic issued forth, flooding the space between Merrill and Hawke and engulfing Cullen in a heartbeat. The elf had bitten her tongue, and quite deeply by the amount of dark blood streaming down her chin.

Merrill's assault took Hawke by surprise. The roiling blood magic rapidly coalesced into a small volume between Hawke and Cullen before exploding violently. Hawke was thrown in one direction and Cullen in another. Merrill sagged against her bonds, drained by the effort of working such intense magic from relatively little blood.

Cullen was choking and gasping for breath, but as Hawke was rising again with his lips twisted in a furious snarl, the templar managed to shout hoarsely, "Now, Unspoken, _now_!"

For the second time in moments, one of the others in the circle acted in a way that was unexpected, but clearly not unprepared. At Cullen's command, the Unspoken hurtled forward, releasing the tension he had been building up for several minutes. The magic that had restrained him snapped like an overstrained rope and fizzled away into nothing. Hawke, having just regained his feet, whirled around in time for the Unspoken's barbed fist to collide with his face. Behind them, Cullen had dragged himself to his knees; with an agonized yell he spread his arms and released a roaring wave of cleansing magic.

The expanding cloud rolled over the circle of dreamers while Hawke was still reeling from the Unspoken's sucker punch. All at once, the wyrd's magic was washed away; around the circle, Isabela, Eingana, Varric, Fenris, Merrill, Wynne, Aveline, and Justice fell to the stone floor of the cathedral, freed at last.

"Attack!" Aveline commanded, and the true battle was finally begun.

Aveline, Eingana, and Fenris drew their weapons and advanced. Justice raised his arms, staff held in one hand, and the weapons held by the three charging dreamers burst into azure flame. His sudden rush of power rebuffed the malevolent tendrils magic that reared up at Hawke's command to attack the dreamers.

Varric hurried over to help Merrill to her feet – the Dalish elf was still momentarily crippled from her desperate blood magic moments ago. Drawing her knives at last, Isabela danced around the four-on-one battle that had erupted between Hawke, Aveline, Eingana, Fenris, and the Unspoken to reach Varric and Merrill.

Wynne, meanwhile, had rushed to Cullen's side, hands aglow with golden rejuvenation magic as the templar collapsed in exhaustion. "Remember what I said!" Wynne shouted to those attacking Hawke as she revived Cullen.

_Right_, Isabela remembered. Wound him, but don't kill. She felt a certain savage pleasure at the idea. Isabela knew it wasn't really Michael Hawke who had tormented her and Cullen and the others so, and she far from relished the idea of hurting the warrior, but it would feel good to finally be able to fight back.

Not that that would be easy. Hawke was proving more than a match for the four attacking him, and he hadn't even begun to tap the limitless reserves of power open to him via the wyrd. Bellowing his fury, Hawke spun with his claws spread, easily deflecting the various blades coming at him. Fenris was thrown momentarily off balance by the sheer force with which Hawke knocked the large, sturdy blade of the elf's greatsword away from his face. He lashed out with a bare foot at Eingana, solidly impacting her breastplate with no apparent damage to himself and forcing her to retreat beyond the range of her dual longswords.

During those few moments, Aveline was able to get closer, protecting her face and chest with her shield while stabbing out with her blade at Hawke's arm. A spell of hastening cast by Justice allowed Aveline to attack so quickly her movements were blurred, but it was still not enough. Hawke spun on the momentum of the kick he'd thrown at Eingana and bull-rushed the Guard-Captain, bowling her over and nimbly avoiding the descending hooks of the Unspoken's bladed staff in the process. Hawke converted his charge into a somersault, ducking under Fenris's sword with uncanny agility and rolling onto his back past Aveline. He was on his feet again and spun around in an instant. Snarling, Hawke swung his hand down across Aveline's face, slashing her skin open horrifically, and from his hunched position leapt clear over the Guard-Captain at Eingana. She fought to fend him off, slicing at Hawke's back with the blades she had been unable to raise in time even as she fell over backwards with the warrior on top of her, savaging her face with his claws.

All the while, Isabela circled warily, a little farther out than the Unspoken, waiting for one of the tiny, ephemeral openings she so excelled at exploiting to arise. Varric hovered protectively near Merrill, who was in the process of inscribing a glyph into the shimmering white flagstones. Some distance away, Wynne was already gathering her potent healing magic and casting it towards Aveline; the severe injuries Hawke had inflicted on the Guard-Captain sealed themselves so fast that they bled only for a brief instant. Even so, Aveline's face was drenched in blood.

Cullen climbed resolutely to his feet beside Wynne as the she turned her attention to Eingana. The Warden-Commander was screaming in pain under Hawke's onslaught, hacking desperately at his back. Hawke's cotton shirt was all but shredded and soaked with blood, but he hadn't let up his vicious attack on Eingana in the slightest – if anything he seemed to have grown even more frenzied. Wynne's prediction had proven accurate all too soon: wounding Hawke here in the Fade had the same effect on him as it did in the real world, which was to drive him into manic blood-rage. Not only that, but each drop of Hawke's blood spilled carried the added danger of rousing the wyrd. Every time Aveline, Fenris, Cullen, and the Unspoken tried to move in to relieve Eingana, Hawke let out a pulse of fiery magic that prevented them from getting close enough.

"Clear the line of fire!" Varric called, raising Bianca and aiming it at Hawke's back. Merrill looked on anxiously, just as eager as Varric was to get the raging warrior away from Eingana before he killed her.

Aveline, Cullen, and Fenris moved aside, allowing Varric an unobstructed shot. The Unspoken hovered with his bladed staff raised, ready to step in the moment Hawke's defenses were down. Merrill tapped her staff against the glyph she had inscribed and made a series of casting gestures over the bolt Varric had loaded in his crossbow.

The dwarf fired, one eye closed and sighting along Bianca's frame. The bolt that sped forward flared viridian, for a moment connected to the apex of Merrill's staff by a tenuous thread of energy the same colour. The moment the bolt pierced Hawke's right shoulder with a _thunk_, a profusion of plant life burst from it. The elvhen magic expressed long, thorny tendrils that twisted over Hawke's upper back and down his arm, constricting and piercing his flesh in dozens of places. Hawke yelled in pain, falling forward as his entire right arm was suddenly crippled and useless.

The Unspoken took advantage of Hawke's momentary vulnerability to lunge forward and snag the hooks of his staff around Hawke's leaf-festooned shoulder. The points of his weapon stuck fast into Hawke's flesh; the hurlock yanked back hard on the haft of his weapon, sending Hawke sprawling backwards off the wounded Warden-Commander. Wynne stepped in at once, closing her hands together to evoke a bright blue aura of healing magic over Eingana's body.

Aveline, Fenris, and Cullen fell on Hawke with their blades as the Unspoken dislodged his hooks from Hawke's shoulder. Fenris cut a long gash into Hawke's left arm, barely dancing back in time to avoid the retaliatory slash at his legs. Aveline stabbed her sword completely through Hawke's right calf, piercing his trousers on entry and again as the bloodied point of her weapon emerged from his flesh on the other side. Hawke writhed and snarled under their combined assault, still struggling to free his left arm from Merrill's entwining magic and barely kept in check by the other warriors.

Varric's bolt had become almost a small tree protruding from Hawke's shoulder, still emanating pulses of nature magic and strengthening the floral trap every time Hawke tried to tear it off. He began to gather crimson-tinged power in the palm of his hand, no doubt intending to burn off the ensnaring greenery.

Cullen stepped forward and interrupted the magic Hawke had been building by crushing his vine-covered forearm beneath an armoured boot. With a cry of exertion, Cullen rammed his sword down against Hawke's hand, nailing it to the flagstones below. Hawke let out a roar of pain and thrashed harder, further mangling his hand and his impaled leg. Aveline barely managed to keep Hawke's lower half under control; Fenris could be of little help, for each of Hawke's limbs was so individually strong that it took all strength the slender elf could muster to restrain his left arm.

During their renewed attack, Isabela had darted around where Hawke had fallen to see to Eingana. The Warden-Commander was shaken and weakened, covered in her own blood. Wynne had healed her so effectively that not a trace remained of the savagery Hawke had inflicted but for the congealing life fluid caked over her face and neck. Isabela helped Eingana rise gingerly to her feet and shake off the lingering effects of Hawke's attack.

Severely wounded in a number of places, unable to shake off the three warriors and with the looming threat of Eingana, Isabela, and the Unspoken hovering nearby – not to mention the mages and Varric farther off – Hawke at last began to tap more deeply into the wyrd's malevolent power. Dense red magic radiated from his skin and boiled upwards in streams of vapour alongside the blood pouring from his injuries. Hawke's pupils dilated rapidly, eclipsing the natural green of his eyes with empty blackness and sparks of crimson.

A resonant howl arose from amidst the clustered attackers, partly enraged and partly in pain. While Isabela felt encouraged and somewhat maliciously satisfied that the wyrd was hurt (she was trying not to think of him as Hawke), she was also tense, wondering what horrible thing was about to happen.

She found out almost immediately. In answer to Hawke's call, a thunderous roar echoed down to them from the oculus that gaped over half the ceiling, so loud that the floor and the distant columns shuddered. Isabela noted abstractly that as the opening had expanded, the band of stars that crossed it had also drawn closer. Really, the objects could no longer even be called stars at all. They were luminescent spheres, an unbroken chain of them drifting across the oculus, each one seemingly an eye peering down at the chaos below.

In front of the spheres, Isabela caught faint signs of movement; as the ancient creature's roar trailed off, bright red ribbons plummeted down out of the darkness. It was the wyrd's ever-present shroud, this time divided into a fleet of hundreds or thousands of racing streamers.

"Look out!" Isabela cried in alarm. Several of the ribbons were heading right for Justice, Wynne, Merrill, and Varric; others were making for the circle of warriors attacking Hawke, and Isabela and Eingana hovering just beyond.

Justice raised his staff forcefully, and a protective dome of power bloomed above them not a moment too soon. The barrier rang like a bell as each descending ribbon collided with it, producing a discordant cacophony that carried out into the emptiness of the cathedral. The barrier faltered under the assault but held. Several of the ribbons were deflected into the heights of the cathedral, only to curve around and back down to aim around the dome. Others redoubled their assault, looping around to strike at the barrier again and again. Justice staggered as if he'd been struck and fell to one knee, fighting to keep the dome in place as it began to crack.

Merrill and Wynne immediately added their power to the failing barrier, and while they acted in time to shore it up against the shroud's attack from above, they could do nothing about the tendrils that had arced around it and beneath. Isabela backed away and raised her knives fearfully as the bizarre swarm of animate not-fabric raced towards her. The Unspoken let out a garbled shout of warning, and Isabela whirled in time to slash at a ribbon that had snuck a long ways around to creep up behind her. She retreated, frantically cutting away bits of the ribbon as it continued flowing towards her and trying to wrap her in its deadly folds. Isabela kept an eye out behind her whenever she could spare a moment, making her way over to where Eingana and the Unspoken had regrouped with Aveline, Fenris, and Cullen, who still fought to keep Hawke pinned.

Merrill and Varric found themselves barely able to defend Wynne, who had taken over maintenance of the barrier above them after Justice's energies had been briefly defeated. Merrill conjured slashing blades of viridian nature magic that danced around them in wide arcs, fending off the relentless torrents of ribbons. Varric ducked under the few that evaded Merrill's attacks and somehow managed to nail them to the flagstones with crossbow bolts. Wynne was focused entirely on warding off a rain of death from above, but Justice stepped in once he had recovered to summon walls of blue fire that burned away hundreds of tendrils in seconds. Every ribbon the dreamers cut or drove back took mere minutes to regenerate itself, and as the battle wore on more and more raveled off from the tangle above the barrier to arc around it and join the assault.

On the other side of the battlefield, Eingana had become a whirlwind of steel as she advanced back and forth across the line of shrouds, cutting them down faster than they could regenerate. Isabela darted along behind her, protecting the Warden-Commander's back from one direction while the Unspoken worked in the other. Between the three of them, they managed to keep the wyrd's tentacles from reaching Aveline, Cullen, and Fenris. Isabela didn't know what might happen were they to fail, but she suspected it would be bad. There had to be some reason Hawke didn't just express the shroud from his body. Isabela knew almost instinctively that they must prevent the things from making physical contact with Hawke as long as possible.

But the more Hawke bled, the more of the wyrd he could call forth. Keeping him under control necessitated making him bleed. How much more could he take before he died? When would the wyrd actually manifest itself in a way that would let them target it directly? Wynne hadn't had time to fully outline her plan before Hawke had arrived, landing literally right in their midst.

During a brief lull between attacking waves of the shrouds, Isabela glanced over at Wynne, Merrill, Varric, and Justice. They seemed to be holding out fine, keeping the ribbons from approaching Hawke from the other direction. The three mages were taking it in turns to shore up the barrier that prevented the seething scarlet mass from plunging down and engulfing them all, as well as gradually extending its reach to make it harder for the ribbons to circumnavigate it. Varric was having great success tossing out his tar bombs, which seemed to duplicate endlessly as needed in the Fade and which proved highly effective in sticking waves of streamers together in washes of black gunk. A long, curved area of the gleaming white flagstones around the four dreamers had been sullied by a mire of sludge, much of which burned with azure fire cast by Justice.

Worryingly, shades and rage demons had begun appearing amidst the shrouds on that side of the battlefield. It seemed that Hawke, or the wyrd, was summoning help. Varric and the mages had fended off the demons thus far, but how long before Hawke began calling down entire armies? Or larger, more powerful spirits? Isabela shuddered to contemplate the idea. Something must give, and soon.

"Wynne!" she called.

The elderly mage was focused on keeping the barrier intact, her skin and eyes radiant with the power of the spirit she hosted, but she looked in Isabela's direction.

"We can't keep this up!" Isabela yelled. Wynne's eyes moved over the pirate to Eingana, the Unspoken, and the three warriors. Fenris, Cullen, and Aveline were tiring, and they were all badly lacerated by Hawke's claws. At present, the warriors were only just managing to keep Hawke on his back. Aveline was kneeling across his ankles and applying force to his left knee against the direction of the joint; her sword still pinned Hawke's leg to the floor, which had become a gory mess. Cullen was leaning his elbows against Hawke's chest, containing the warrior's wild thrashing with the weight of his armour, and Fenris had his arms phased through the flagstones to grip Hawke's shoulder and neck from beneath.

"What needs to happen?" Eingana called to Wynne, keeping one eye on the furious storm of ribbons that was gathering just beyond the range of her swords, preparing to roll over them in a tide of red death.

"Hold on a few moments longer!" Wynne shouted back. Her voice pulsed with the spirit's power. "We're coming!"

At that moment the tide surged forward and Isabela could no longer afford not to pay attention to her immediate surroundings. The pirate ducked and danced through the chaos, cutting madly all around her whenever she was sure she wouldn't hit an ally. A shade appeared, and she sliced it into three pieces with her knives. Eingana waded out into the sea, spinning crazily and using the magic of her enchanted sword to set fire to scores of shrouds at a time. She kept relatively close to the others, but even so the Warden-Commander escaped a streamer creeping up on her only narrowly more than once, and that with the help of the Unspoken.

Both Isabela and the hurlock had by this time been forced to retreat against the onslaught, so that they were nearly back-to-back with Cullen and Fenris. If not for Eingana thinning the violence of the tangle they would have been pushed back even further. At one point, when Isabela was in no danger closer than several seconds away, she risked a glance over her shoulder.

The barrier was intact, but it was trembling and sinking gradually beneath the crimson weight atop it. Merrill, wild-eyed, had cut deeply into both forearms and was using her own blood to strengthen her nature magic. Entire hedges were emerging from the floor as the four dreamers gradually retreated back towards Aveline, Cullen, and Fenris, moving when they were not occupied defending themselves from racing shrouds or swarms of hostile spirits. Flagstones were messily dislodged by the dozen as Merrill's magically-evoked flora surged upwards, sending chunks of pristine masonry tumbling in all directions. Meanwhile, the hedges launched wave after wave of thorny vines that caught on the opposing shrouds and pulled them to the ground, where they thrashed and writhed uselessly.

Reassured that the others were making their way towards her, Isabela turned back around to find a desire demon sauntering towards her, raising clawed hands and smiling hungrily. The violet fire that burned atop its head was shot through with streaks of dramatic crimson. Isabela was far from an expert on demons, but in the time she had known Michael Hawke, she had seen a great many of them – many more than she would have cared to. Isabela had never before seen a desire demon whose head-flames looked like this one's did.

The fact only made more urgent the need to kill it. Isabela made to lunge forward with her knives, aiming one high and one low and preparing to slip them around any defensive effort the demon might attempt and to evade its claws at the same time. Instead, the pirate found herself pitching forward, tripped up from below. She cursed fluently.

Isabela threw out an arm just in time to save herself the pain of a nose broken against the flagstones. Fear spiked unpleasantly through her as she lost sight of the desire demon. She had had to let go of one of her knives to break her fall, and it was only through sheer luck that her hand landed on the blade in such a way that her palm was not slashed and none of her fingers were severed. Looking down her body, Isabela saw what it was that had toppled her over – the shroud, divided into the thinnest tendrils she had yet seen, was entwined around her ankles and creeping up her legs.

Panicking, Isabela searched the bedlam around her for the desire demon as she kicked and pawed at the ribbons that were slowly, insidiously, tightening their grip. She slid a knife between her boot and the twining shroud, barely keeping enough self-control to avoid injuring herself. The ribbons fell away in twitching fragments, but some remained attached and began regenerating at once. Frantically, gasping and trying hard to stifle sobs of terror, Isabela slashed again and again at the streamers, fighting to dislodge their hold over her. She couldn't avoid damaging her boots quite severely, but Isabela consoled herself that they were only dream-projection boots. It wasn't like her footwear had a mind that would reflect any damage sustained onto a real-world body.

After a few heart-pounding moments, Isabela finally managed to free herself and scrambled away, kicking at the feebly jerking scraps of wyrd-shroud. She scrambled up to her knees and cast about, looking for the desire demon, only to see it grappling with the Unspoken a short distance away. As Isabela watched, the duel ended abruptly when the hurlock tore the creature's face off with his hooks.

During her distraction, Varric and the mages had managed to reach the others. Eingana and Justice were fighting off several rage demons and a swarm of shades backed by the seething jungle of crimson shrouds. On the other side of where Aveline, Cullen, and Fenris still battled Hawke, Merrill and Varric were doing the same with a combination of hedges and tar bombs. Judging by the warrior's near-continuous howls of rage and pain, he was at least contained, but he was far from being actually under control. Isabela caught a glimpse of Hawke's claws flashing out across Fenris's forehead and slicing open his skin, just barely missing his eyes.

Wynne was holding the barrier aloft with difficulty – it was now less than a meter above their heads. Crimson-tinged shadows had nearly engulfed the space above the barrier and all around them. The peripheral cathedral was hardly visible at all through the churning chaos, and its bright, hazy ambience had dimmed, its light seemingly drawn into the oculus in the ceilings. Wynne herself had become the brightest source of light within their reduced world. Gauzy wings of brilliant energy radiated out from her, sweeping around in great arcs that shored up the barrier and released bursts of healing energy over all the dreamers but Hawke.

Once the Unspoken was certain that the desire demon was truly dead – which for him apparently involved not leaving its corpse in less than three pieces – he made for Isabela. His brutality didn't bothered her as much as it might have; he was hardly worse than Hawke had been even before being possessed, after all, and the Unspoken had saved her life. He'd more than proven himself since the battle had begun, hours ago... how long had it been? Isabela had no idea. She didn't even flinch or recoil when at the Unspoken's frightening appearance when he looked around, spotted her, and made his lumbering way over to haul her to her feet.

"Come," he rasped. "We must be staying together."

Isabela nodded. "Thanks for that," she said gratefully. The hurlock flashed her his macabre grin, and she couldn't help smiling back. _This is probably a bad sign – smiling at darkspawn._

They made their way quickly over to where the others had gathered. Isabela stumbled slightly, freezing in fear at the sight of a pride demon stalking towards them, but the Unspoken dragged her inexorably onward

"Demon! _Big demon_!" Isabela exclaimed in warning, even as Justice sensed the approaching demon. He was already whirling towards it, releasing a gout of blue fire as he did so, warding off the latest encroaching swarm of mingled shroud and shades. Justice pounded his staff decisively against the flagstones, invoking an intensely powerful paralysis glyph beneath the pride demon. It paused as it crossed the trap, twitching and struggling with all the otherworldly might it could bear against the restraint of Justice's magic.

Justice shouted for aid, and Varric reacted before the demon could free itself. He launched a volley of three bolts in quick succession – an incredible feat of crossbow engineering he called a Rhyming Triplet, which as far as Isabela knew was unique to Bianca's design. All three of the rapidly fired bolts landed, _thunk-thunk-thunk_, in the demon's face – and then exploded in a fiery spray of gore.

The Unspoken cackled his glee at the gruesome sight, swinging his hooks around to catch some flutters of advancing shroud and wrestling them to the ground. Isabela, more nauseated than amused, contented herself with giving Varric a congratulatory pat on the back the moment she reached him.

"Wynne!" Justice called, seeing that the pirate and hurlock had regrouped with the others. All ten dreamers were finally clustered around Hawke, with Cullen, Fenris, and Aveline in the midst of the group and the others battling back the wyrd's forces all around. Isabela, stepping into the fray beside Eingana to drive shades and rage demons into Merrill's hedges, had to be careful where she stepped – the flagstones were slick with Hawke's blood. He was fighting harder than ever to push the three warriors off of him, and not even Wynne's regular pulses of healing magic could keep up with the terrible wounds his claws kept inflicting on them.

"We cannot wait any longer!" Justice said.

"Are you ready?" Wynne asked him. The staff she held aloft with both hands remained rock-steady, but the strain of maintaining the barrier against the flood of scarlet darkness beyond was clear on her face.

"Yes!" Justice replied.

"On three, then!"

"Wait, what are you doing?" Varric asked urgently as Wynne began to count.

"One... two..."

"Brace yourselves!" Justice bellowed.

"Three!"

Wynne spread her arms and leapt into the air, and as she did time briefly seemed to slow to a near standstill. Isabela watched in awe as for the span of a single heartbeat that seemed to last much, much longer, Wynne hovered amidst the roiling chaos of spirits and shroud. She pointed her staff in one direction and stretched out her free hand in the other, her face contorted with effort and her entire body radiating pure white energy.

Then Isabela felt the impact of Justice's staff against the flagstones and she lost sight of Wynne and everything else as she was swept away on a vast and wholly irresistible tide of magic.

For several long, quiet moments, Isabela hovered in blank whiteness. At first she gasped for breath, panicking at her sudden lack of surroundings, but soon she began to enjoy the peace and the chance, however brief, for a rest.

There came a flare of gentle blue in the indeterminate distance. The light was warm and familiar, and Isabela made for it instinctively, not really even knowing how she was moving. She couldn't feel her body, but she remained strangely calm about the fact. Gradually, as she approached the light, Isabela felt more and more of herself returning, and she began to sense the Fade around her in increasing detail.

By the time the light was upon her, Isabela had pieced together in her mind what had happened. Wynne had released a titanic burst of magical force, blasting away all but the hardiest of the wyrd's minions and burning back much its shroud. Her colossal effort hadn't destroyed the creature, but it had cleared an escape route. At exactly the right moment, Justice had stepped in, carrying all ten of the dreamers away from Hawke on the winds of the Fade into an untouched tract of the cathedral in the middle distance.

Once she had fully come back to herself and realized that the others were all standing around her, Isabela became somewhat confused. She could see the shroud some distance away, churning in a wild vortex that spun crazily upwards into the oculus. Hadn't they been trying to _prevent_ the shrouds from reaching Hawke? He wasn't with them, so he could only be there still, at the convergence of all those innumerable undulating ribbons.

Interestingly, in the void beyond the oculus, the wyrd's manifestation seemed to have scattered the luminous orbs that been hovering curiously overhead. The objects that had previously appeared as stars were no longer suspended in a perfect line across the oculus, but soaring about the whirling column of red fabric and energy in a variety of wildly eccentric orbits.

"What happened?" Isabela asked Justice, who was standing nearby. "I thought we didn't want the curtains to get at Hawke."

"Yeah," Varric added. "Did something just go horribly wrong? I'm inclined not to think so, because you two-" he gestured towards Justice and Wynne "seem to think everything is fine. Still-"

The spirit gestured gravely with his staff. Isabela looked where indicated, back at the vortex. It was billowing outward, growing alarmingly larger.

"Hawke has been grievously wounded," Wynne explained. "He is near death, in fact. We have finally provoked the wyrd enough that it will show its true face at last, and this time we must not hold back."

Varric looked pale, Merrill terrified. Isabela swallowed nervously. "Oh."

This was supposed to be a good thing. They'd done everything they needed to except fight the actual wyrd and kill it. This was it – what they had been trying to do for so long. Isabela thought she had been scared before, all those times she had nearly died in the last several hours. But now, faced with the prospect of imminent face-to-face– face-to-_whatever_ – contact with the wyrd...

_This_, Isabela thought. _This is real fear. And I must master it, or I will die._

It was a sobering thought.

She looked around for Cullen. Shoving aside her pride, Isabela hurried over to him, checking him for injuries. Cullen smiled at her as she approached, and a strange fluttery feeling spiraled up from Isabela's gut. The templar was sweaty and clearly exhausted, but miraculously uninjured. The grand magics Justice and Wynne had called forth to carry them all away from the carnage had evidently healed everyone in the process; Isabela's own relatively minor injures had vanished entirely. She wondered with a flash of concern how many times healing magic could restore a wounded body. Was there a limit? Did the success of the magic depend only on reaching the injured person in time, or could it be, perhaps, that severe tissue damage could be repaired only so many times in a short period?

Isabela settled herself with the fact that everyone was still alive and healthy, if weary and terrified. Really, in some ways it was incredible that they were all still alive. Relieved that they had that at least, Isabela sheathed one of her knives and slipped her hand into Cullen's. She imagined she could feel the warmth of his body through the metal gauntlet he wore as he squeezed her hand.

Aveline and Fenris, also startlingly uninjured despite already bearing some brand-new scars from their long bout with Hawke, were taking advantage of the brief respite to rest. Eingana and the Unspoken were doing the same; both had sat down. Merrill was still on edge, muttering half-complete spells under her breath and scratching absent-mindedly at her inner arms where her casting wounds had been minutes previously. Her staff rotated slowly in the air before her. Varric was checking over Bianca, and Justice and Wynne were keeping an eye on the wyrd.

The creature's shroud had become a twisting pillar of blood-red energy. It positively crackled with power, casting bright scarlet light out into the pallid haze of the cathedral. It seemed to have grown substantially wider as it ascended; at the distant ceiling, the oculus was all but filled by the chaotic energies. Their ceaseless whirl was directed downwards, converging where Hawke had lain amidst the shattered and bloodstained flagstones. Whether or not the warrior had moved was unknown, for he was lost in the storm.

The question was soon answered as a break in the raging clouds of magic briefly passed in front of their view. Isabela, looking in that direction at the right moment, caught a glimpse of Hawke. He hovered upright in the midst of the pandemonium, arms outstretched and claws spread. The wyrd's power wreathed around him in long tendrils that crawled over his body like bloated, spectral worms. His eyes were radiant with eldritch power.

Isabela gasped and raised her arm to point, but by the time she'd gathered her wits enough to speak, the vortex had swallowed Hawke once more. She needn't have worried; Cullen had seen the same thing, and his face was ashen. They shared a long, wordless glance. Unconsciously, Isabela's hand tightened around Cullen's.

"We have but moments remaining," Wynne said in a quiet voice that nevertheless rang with the resonant power of her spirit companion. "Be sure to-"

The vortex exploded, cutting her off with a deafening _boom_. Energy and fire rolled out in all directions, screaming towards them on an unstoppable tide. Isabela barely had time to register the danger before Merrill, Justice, and Wynne reacted with perfect synchronicity. All three raised buzzing parabolic barriers between the party of dreamers and the oncoming destruction, tapering off a considerable distance to either side. They were just in time, as the shockwave reached them a fraction of a second later.

Justice trembled as the tide pounded against his barrier. The long, arcing wings of the parabola diffused the brunt of the swirling fires safely out and away from them, but the ferocity of the power pouring against its vertex was both relentless and awe-inspiring. Crackling azure energy raced up and down Justice's body as he poured his reserves of mana into maintaining his shield. It was a prodigious effort, but it was a mere five seconds before the barrier fell against the wyrd's fury. Justice collapsed, convulsing and groaning in pain.

The onslaught kept coming. Merrill's barrier twisted and writhed under the assault. An avalanche of uprooted flagstones and other blackened chunks of masonry were hurled against it. Merrill cried out and fell to her knees as her barrier was overcome as well.

Isabela ran over to the agonized elf, fearing the backlash of energies had done her serious harm. Cullen followed her, heading for Justice.

The final barrier, Wynne's, held up the longest of the three, as the intensity of the surge at last began to ebb. The roaring crimson flames gradually dissipated as they were funneled out along the arcs of Wynne's parabola, spending their intensity against it and leaving unharmed the other side where the dreamers sheltered. By the time Wynne's magic shuddered and went down in a sparkling cascade, the extreme temperature of the dying blast had become tolerable, if still uncomfortable.

Where the vortex had been was obscured by clouds of sparks and ash that drifted out from the epicenter of the eruption, pushed along by gusts of hot wind. The dreamers stood in a starkly defined, layered parabola, only the untouched inmost of which still gleamed white and clean. Outside their tiny island of safety, the cathedral was a charred, smouldering ruin. Even the far-off pillars that held up the sky were withered and black.

Isabela helped Merrill to her feet, wincing at the unpleasant, sulphurous-saffron odour that permeated their surroundings now that the barriers were down. The dusty air felt thick and heavy, filled with a palpable heat. Isabela coughed a few times, futilely attempting to wave some of the filaments of debris away from her face.

The others were getting to their feet around Isabela and Merrill, having ducked or otherwise gone to ground in terror at the explosion. Cullen and the Unspoken were working together to haul Justice to his feet, who appeared to be stunned. Varric had Bianca strapped to his back and was peering out between his fingers, as if not trusting that the wyrd's calamitous outbreak was truly over.

Fenris and Aveline were both staring towards where the vortex had been. Having helped Merrill stand and supported her while she recovered, Isabela followed their gaze. Her mouth fell open in silent horror.

The clouds had parted. The vortex was gone, but it had been replaced by something out of a madman's nightmare.

Superficially, it resembled a tree, but even the largest tree in the real world would have been dwarfed by the monstrous thing that now stood before them – fortunately at some distance. Its "trunk" was an immense column of heaving purple-black flesh, studded all over with pulsating veiny protrusions the colour of arterial blood. The trunk extended upwards into the oculus, apparently infinitely, growing narrower as it rose but never completely disappearing as high as Isabela could see. Gargantuan root-like structures emanated from its base and expressed long, rearing tentacles that reached out in all directions. The huge limbs were tipped by a grotesque parody of a human hand, complete with spindly, bladed digits each as long as a qunari was tall. Farther up the main column, a set of similar structures cast a network of malevolent branches out into the cathedral's heights.

There was no sign of Hawke anywhere, and Isabela felt sick despair welling up within her. She could hardly tear her eyes away from the obscene thing she was looking at. She felt like it was scrambling her mind, making blurry and inconstant everything nearby but itself. Isabela couldn't seem to form a coherent thought outside of her dread at what might have become of the man they had tried so hard to save.

_Trying_, the pirate reminded herself forcefully. _The man we are_ trying_ to save. There must still be a chance... Wynne said... _what had she said? Isabela's thoughts were sluggish. The dreamers were thankfully far beyond the range of the wyrd's numerous tentacles, but the mere sight of the creature was enough to make her skin crawl horribly with oily, phantom sensations.

As they stared at the alien monstrosity, struck dumb by the sheer _wrongness_ it seemed to exude, a spasm traveled up the creature's height from its base. A resonant, eldritch roar rippled outwards from the wyrd with tremendous force. Isabela felt the sound worming its way through her ears and into her head, chilling her with a clammy grip around her heart. Icy pain shot through her body from her chest out along her limbs, and she very nearly succumbed to gibbering, mindless terror. All around her, the others were similarly paralyzed, stricken by the ghastly noise.

Wynne unfolded her arms defiantly and released a twanging, booming sphere of blue-white light. The flagstones vibrated beneath them, and a far-off rumble from the depths of the cathedral sounded in response. The surge of gentle warmth banished the frigid madness that was threatening to engulf Isabela's mind, replacing it with stony determination. Gratefully, she shook off the effects of the roar, invigorated and her confidence renewed despite the bleak spectacle the wyrd presented before her.

"This is the creature's true form!" Wynne declared. "This beast is the one we must kill-"

"Oh, is that all?" Varric muttered.

"-and by any means necessary!" Wynne went on. "Do not hold back any longer, and do not fear for Michael's life!"

Really? Isabela thought. Wynne certainly knew more about spirits than she did, but to the pirate it looked like Hawke had been utterly consumed in the whirl of shrouds and chaotic magic from which the beast they now faced had emerged. Was that not reason enough to fear for his life?

The idea gave her pause. If they killed this thing – and that they could was by no means certain, though Isabela had never, ever known anything that so clearly needed to die as much as that horrific thing did – then how would that not kill Hawke as well? What had happened to his projected dream-self, the mind they were so desperately trying to reunite with his physical body? How could it have possibly survived such a transformation undamaged?

It seemed ludicrous to hope for total success at this point – but Wynne had said not to fear for his life, and Isabela trusted Wynne. She _had_ to trust Wynne. It was their belief in one another, Isabela thought, which would save them all and allow them to prevail – and to save the man who had brought them all together.

Yes. That was what would get her through this, Isabela decided. That, and her usual method of coping with terrifying danger.

Drawing her sheathed knife, Isabela started, "Would anyone object if I made a-"

"If you're about to say 'phallic joke,'" Aveline cut her off, "the answer is most definitely _yes_." The Guard-Captain knew her too well.

Isabela gestured with a knife in mock helplessness. "But... but... _look_ at it! I swear – this is bringing back memories of my time in Antiva."

Aveline made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes. Isabela grinned at her, and she could have sworn she saw a flicker of a smile cross Aveline's face.

Nearby, Justice had recovered from the shock of absorbing the wyrd's devastating initial attack. He thanked Cullen gruffly and turned to regard the wyrd with icy determination, his signature azure fires swirling around him as if barely kept in check.

"How about we stop looking at it and start killing it?" Fenris suggested dryly.

"Oh, I'm quite on board for that, pet," Isabela assured him. "That thing needs to die _so_ hard."

"I second that notion," Varric said darkly, hoisting Bianca into ready position. "Drinks are on me at the Hanged Man afterwards. This is going to make a truly epic tavern story."

Cullen rubbed his forehead. "Varric... much as I appreciate the spirit of tavern stories... is this really the time to be worrying about drinking and tales?"

"Why not?" Varric said with a chuckle. "How often do you get to say you've killed a... a, er... one of those?" He pointed.

Merrill was eyeing the wyrd speculatively with her head tilted to one side, staff held in one hand and bleeding knife gripped tightly in the other. Isabela could almost see the wheels turning in her head. _A one-in-a-lifetime opportunity for research, perhaps_?

Merrill opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when Isabela touched her gently on the arm. The elf looked at her curiously, and Isabela shook her head with a slight smile. Merrill gave a tiny sigh and nodded her understanding.

Eingana, meanwhile, was fingering the hilts of her blades and chewing her lip while she stared at the creature with a thoughtful frown. Her armour was heavily marked up and battered by Hawke's claws, though her injuries had been healed by Wynne's magic.

Unbidden, the memory of the night before rose in Isabela's thoughts. She remembered that strange hurlock sorcerer, the Architect, arriving in the depths of Hawke's cellar. Eingana and the other Wardens had seemed about to abandon their efforts to save Anders and Hawke in favour of the Grey Wardens' planned expedition into the Deep Roads... until the enigmatic darkspawn had spent a few minutes talking to them in private. What, Isabela wondered, had the creature said to them that had convinced them they were needed more urgently here in the Fade?

Perhaps sensing her scrutiny, Eingana glanced sharply at Isabela. The pirate tried to summon her usual easy grin and a saucy wink, but all she could manage was a slight quirking of her lips. Eingana gave her an amused smile. Isabela wondered if she would ever find out just what it was about the wyrd that had the Architect and the Grey Wardens so concerned.

She raised a knife and pointed it threateningly at the wyrd in a symbolic gesture of aggression. "Shall we get on with it, then?" Isabela said. "I want to see what happens when you stab one of those red boils."

Aveline gave her a withering look, but refrained from commenting further. Instead, she hefted her shield and leveled her sword in the wyrd's direction. The others, seeing Aveline taking command, readied their weapons.

"Charge!" Aveline yelled. She set off at a run towards the wyrd. "For the Champion of Kirkwall! For Hawke!"

"_For Hawke!_" Isabela screamed with all the passion and faith she could muster, raising one of her knives into the air and following Aveline's lead. The others followed suit, shouting battle cries of their own.

The wyrd's enormous tentacles whipped towards them the moment they began their charge, bladed digits grasping hungrily. The attacking dreamers were not yet close enough to the creature that its limbs posed any threat, but it would be but moments before they came within its range. When they did, a colossal arm was already barreling towards them, ready to sweep them all aside.

Isabela hardly dared to slow down when she saw the incoming tentacle, trusting in the physical and magical might of her companions. Still, she couldn't contain wordless cry of alarm when it became obvious that the horrible thing was heading right for them.

Fortunately, Justice was aware of the threat and intervened just in time. He leapt ahead to the front of the charge, gestured forcefully with his staff and holding it in both hands before him. A crackling wall of translucent blue energy flashed into being, some distance ahead of Aveline. The magic seemed to warp and twist the wyrd's tentacle as it passed through it, slowing it down considerably – but not completely, taking the possessed mage by surprise.

The mass of flesh slammed into Justice with brutal force, hurling him backwards and bowling over Fenris and the Unspoken in the process. Aveline and Cullen, weighted down with their heavy plate armour, were able to withstand the blow. Behind them, Isabela, Varric, Merrill, and Wynne were barely able to skid to a halt in time to avoid colliding with the wavering tentacle. Eingana spun with her momentum, propelling her enchanted blade deeply into the wall of dark flesh as it flailed in her direction.

Scowling, Justice shoved himself to his feet, annoyed with himself for having underestimated the wyrd. He conjured an immense sphere of force and cast it at another of the creature's tentacles that was swinging its ponderous way in their direction. With a better estimation of the wyrd's strength, Justice's spell was more than sufficient at ensuring the others had only one tentacle to deal with at a time.

Fenris and the Unspoken were lost from immediate view, as the tentacle had swung right over them as it knocked them onto their backs, but Isabela could hear the hurlock growling angrily. The pirate darted forward around Justice to Eingana's side and joined her in stabbing the wyrd repeatedly with her blades. Meanwhile, Merrill scampered around to the left of where Aveline had braced herself against the wyrd's attack and was now working with Cullen to keep it from advancing any further. The Dalish elf swung her staff in a sparkling arc and began unleashing waves of lightning and flame against the tentacle, while Varric hung back and opened fire with his explosive bolts.

A howl of pain burst from the creature's trunk at the multi-faceted assault. Isabela, wincing at the sheer volume of the noise, felt its vibrations crawling unpleasantly over her skin. The wyrd's tentacle thrashed violently as it tried to retreat from the various blades stabbing into it. On its far side, the Unspoken thrust his weapon upward and embedded its hooks within the tentacle, using it as a grip to haul himself upright. Fenris's lyrium-glow flared nearby, and a moment later the elf appeared with a savage snarl on his face, having phased his entire body through the tentacle. Fenris wasted no time in joining Isabela and Eingana hacking chunks of flesh free from their adversary. Foul-smelling ichor slopped onto the flagstones with each cut.

Varric released a rapid-fire salvo of at least five bolts from Bianca, aimed not at the tentacle but at its root where the limb radiated from the wyrd's trunk some distance away. Moments later, a series of explosions along the bloated column rocked the cathedral.

"Been wondering if that would work with five in a row for a while now," the dwarf commented with a grin.

The wyrd screeched horribly in response and its tentacle swung up into the air. A large segment of the limb was charred and smouldering from Merrill's magical attack, and its distal end was shredded and awash in thick, sludgy blood. Aveline, Cullen, Eingana, Isabela, and Fenris managed to yank their weapons free of the twitching limb as it reeled away, pursued by shocks of lightning and snaking bolts of azure fire cast by Merrill and Justice. The Unspoken, however, had buried his hooks too deeply into the wyrd's flesh and was dragged upwards with it. The hurlock soared into the air, clinging to the shaft of his weapon as the tentacle lanced out and closed its bladed digits around Varric.

"No!" Isabela and Merrill yelled simultaneously. Despite its injuries, the wyrd moved incredibly quickly. Varric was far out of their reach in an instant, rocketed into the cathedral's heights by the claws locked around him and yelling in terror. The Unspoken was flung about like a rag doll, barely managing to keep a solid grip on his weapon as he clawed his way to a more secure purchase on the tentacle. Three of the wyrd's other gargantuan limbs swung down at them, trying to scatter the group of dreamers, but Justice knocked them all back with deafening blasts of force.

With a wordless cry of anger, Merrill drew her bleeding knife and swept it across her inner forearm. The bright red blood that splattered out with the sheer force of her cut never even touched the flagstones, consumed in a sparkling mist as Merrill raised her hands and shouted a spell in the ancient elven tongue. Thick, woody brambles erupted from the ground around her, scattering chunks of shattered flagstones and puffs of dust as they flowed on and on, launching high into the air after the tentacle which held Varric.

Explosions popped here and there against the wyrd's upper trunk as Varric fired in a panic. The Unspoken seemed to be trying to claw his way along the limb toward Varric, but he was hindered by the wyrd's thrashing and the slickness of its ichor. One after the other, Merrill's conjured vines leapt at the tentacle, trying to ensnare it. The tips of those tendrils that missed exploded with webs of thorny greenery that snagged on the tendrils that caught, wrapping around them and snaking up to latch onto the tentacle.

Aveline and Cullen were hovering, clearly wanting to go after the wyrd but concerned for Varric. Wynne waved them on urgently.

"Go!" the elderly mage called. "Merrill and I will get to the others – you must keep injuring the wyrd. Weaken it further!"

"Catch up with us when you can, and call if you need help!" Aveline said, and she took off, Cullen at her heels. Fenris, Eingana, and Justice tore after them, but Isabela hung back a moment, biting her lip.

Wynne was working a spell, sweeping her staff in long arcs around her. Sparkles of magic streamed from her fingers as she gestured, spreading out to weave and swirl about the various dreamers.

"Merrill," Isabela said, cursing her inability to overcome these mawkish tendencies that had been cropping up more and more lately.

"I've got him, Isabela," Merrill said shortly, not taking her eyes off the battle going on overhead between her foliage and the wyrd's tentacle. "Get going."

"Thanks," Isabela bit out, feeling a surge of warmth and pride for the elf. She threw one more glance up towards the distant ceiling. Merrill's vines had merged into a massive, twisting tree that was slowly but steadily forcing the writhing tentacle downwards. The Unspoken had achieved a solid grip with his legs and was carving away chunks of the wyrd's flesh even as he was thrown violently back and forth. Fountains of dark, sludgy fluid were spraying outwards with each thrash, falling to the scorched flagstones far below in a gory rain. Varric's yells, however, had fallen silent.

Isabela forced aside her fear and turned to run after the others. Ghastly screeches of pain and rage resounded through the cathedral. In the oculus, the luminescent spheres had retreated into the darkness beyond, once more visible only as a ring of stars.

The wyrd was much, _much_ larger up close than it had appeared from afar. Isabela's heart was thundering, somewhat with the exhilaration of the battle but mostly out of terror. Suppressing her urge to flee as best she could, Isabela plunged her knives into anything that wasn't flagstones as she passed it. Several times one of her blades caught in the heaving flesh she was stabbing, but Isabela simply dragged with all her strength, slicing long gashes into the wyrd's body that dribbled its vital ooze. It wasn't long before Isabela was caked up to her elbows in the fetid ichor. The smell it produced was horrendous.

Ahead of the pirate, Aveline and Cullen rammed their shields into the creature's trunk side-by-side. Fenris set to work hacking and slicing at the immense, meandering rolls and tubes of flesh the dreamers were now leaping amongst in their charge. The glittering magic Wynne had conjured channeled up his arms and legs to his sword and funneling down the length of its blade, exploding in gouts of bright fire every time he struck. As Isabela caught up with Fenris and joined his assault, Wynne's spell flowed into her knives, producing a similar effect.

Eingana leapt atop one of the wyrd's roots where it was thin enough for her to do so and began climbing it in a fast, low run with her longswords outstretched to either side for balance. Justice conjured a wall of flame that trailed along in her wake, bursting with arcs of fiery sparks. The fleshy root quivered and shuddered away from the magical assault, releasing several filmy pulses of dark purple magic that knocked its attackers back and disrupted Justice's spell.

Aveline braced her shield against the wyrd's pulse and retaliated by thrusting her sword into the column of its flesh. She kept on shoving in an adrenaline-fueled rage until her arm was submerged to her elbow. Aveline tugged her weapon out with some difficulty and did it again; her blade glowed brilliantly with Wynne's enchantment, expelling white-hot fire that charred and shriveled the wyrd wherever it touched it. Beside her, Cullen had dropped his shield in order to grip his sword with both hands, and was dealing the wyrd a series of long, deep slashes. Its roaring and screeching were nearly continuous, possibly in fury at their audacity but also, Isabela was sure, in pain.

A triumphant roar from above made Isabela glance up in time to see the Unspoken yanking the hooks of his weapon free of the wyrd and its severed misshapen hand-thing plummeting downwards. The gnarled tree that Merrill had created was now nearly as large as the shredded tentacle in its grip. The limb jerked as it tried vainly to free itself from the thorny foliage that was now creeping along its length towards the wyrd's central trunk.

The momentum of his final slice was too much for the Unspoken and he lost his grip, tumbling after the wyrd's hand as its bladed digits opened like a nightmarish flower. Varric appeared, clutching Bianca like a lifeline, his face ashen where it wasn't slashed and covered in blood.

Isabela didn't even have time to panic before a cloud of magic composed of Wynne's blue-white sparks and viridian threads cast by Merrill bloomed beneath the dwarf and hurlock, catching both in its gentle web and lowering them safely to the ground. The nasty hand fell right through, spouting ichor, and landed with a nauseating _splat_.

Releasing a breath of relief that Varric was safe – and it was good that the hurlock hadn't died either, she supposed – Isabela turned back to stabbing the wyrd with a vengeance wherever she could. Above her, Eingana had somehow followed the creature's root she was climbing a considerable distance up its trunk, and Justice was now bombarding the wyrd from afar with bolts of lightning. Even when her climbing surface became nearly vertical, Eingana continued leaping nimbly, up and up. Finally she reached what had clearly been her target all along – one of the bright veiny pustules, which Isabela could see was at least four the size of Hawke's front door now that Eingana was right in front of it.

The Warden-Commander let out a yell and plunged first one sword, then the other into the protrusion, which twitched spasmodically. Isabela winced, expecting a stomach-churning flood of bright scarlet pus or something else equally horrible, but the thing just bled the same black slime the wyrd bled everywhere else. The effect, however, was still different: the creature convulsed violently over its entire body and let out an earsplitting howl like it never had before, unmistakably in agony. It seemed Eingana had hit a nerve.

"Stab the big red things!" she yelled down from where she was precariously perched, supported almost entirely on the two swords she had embedded in the pustule. "Any of them you can reach!"

"_Look out!_" Isabela screamed, but a moment too late. A clawed tentacle descended and the wyrd slashed Eingana off itself like an irritating flea. She managed to hang on to her enchanted blade; the other remained embedded in the wyrd as Eingana went flying out in the air at least two dozen meters above the floor.

"Bastard!" Isabela screamed. She broke off from beside Fenris and made for another of the creature's roots nearby, thinking she would follow Eingana's example and trusting Wynne to take care of the dislodged elf. Justice expressed his own rage by launching a dazzling fork of lightning that struck the wyrd right on its injured pustule. The newly-recovered Varric joined in the revenge by following up Justice's attack with a volley of exploding bolts. When the wash of heat and flame dissipated, the pustule was gone, replaced by a gruesome crater gouged into the column.

The wyrd thundered its fury and redoubled its assault on the dreamers as they continued attacking it. It let out several rapid-fire bursts of its filthy magic, knocking them all away except Aveline, who instinctively braced behind her shield, and Isabela, who dug her knives into a root and hung on with strength born of passionate fury. She was so damn tired of the blighted thing hurting people, and seeing it toss Eingana out into the emptiness had dried up any remaining doubts Isabela might have had about hurting Hawke.

She vaulted herself onto the root she was stabbing and began to climb it with her knives, stabbing in first one and then the other and pulling herself progressively higher. She was making for one of the pustules that Eingana had stabbed to such great effect.

Around and below her, the others were getting back to their feet; Fenris joined Aveline and threw himself back into the fight, phasing his entire body and walking right into the wyrd, heaving his sword around him and ripping apart its interior. Justice and Merrill had circled around to stand diametrically opposite and proceeded to hurl everything they could conjure. The Unspoken, however, was badly injured and hung back near Varric and Wynne; the potent aura of her spirit companion was slowly repairing the hurlock's wounds, but Wynne herself was occupied with a bloodied and unconscious Eingana. The Warden-Commander had been thrown from her perch so fast that Wynne had only been able to partially slow her descent.

"Isabela!" Cullen called up at the pirate as she continued her furious climb. "What are you doing?"

"Stabbing this fucker!" she yelled in reply. "Watch my back!"

Cullen shouted something back at her, but Isabela could barely hear him over the cacophonous magical explosions and the wyrd's screeches tearing the air all around her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw several tentacles whipping in her direction, clawed digits outstretched and eager to pluck her away. One of them was knocked back by a ferocious blast when Varric fired an explosive bolt at it with extraordinary aim, but there were two others incoming. Isabela tensed, ready to try and dodge their deadly grasp, but she there was no need – the attacking tentacles were repelled by a hard spherical shell that Justice conjured around her. Streams of glowing magic condensed around her from the barrier, sliding along her blades and making them gleam with preternatural sharpness.

The wyrd was still bellowing as Isabela continued to climb, stabbing hand-over-hand and using her knives to haul herself ever higher. One of its tentacles had been stretched down by the ever-increasing weight of Merrill's enchanted tree; by this time the implacable tug of the plant's thorny outgrowths had caused the wyrd's trunk to buckle noticeably in that direction. Another of its limbs, the one Varric had fired at, ended in a singed and useless stump, but it was still dangerous; and many more remained uninjured. They swept down at Isabela as well as the dreamers attacking its base, over and over again. Justice was forced to abandon his direct attack and maintain his protective shell around the pirate, as well as a larger dome-shaped barrier over the others. His magical walls trembled and crackled with power as the bulk of the wyrd's tentacles slammed into them relentlessly, but Justice gritted his teeth and exerted himself harder. The azure glow of his energies brightened, and his barriers held.

Isabela at last reached the pustule she was aiming for and swung one of her knives into it as hard as she could. "_Bastard!_" the pirate screamed as the wyrd convulsed beneath her, heart thudding with exertion and adrenaline. "_Die!_"

The clammy flesh beneath her erupted and Isabela was suddenly twenty meters out in the cathedral's heights with nothing but open air beneath her. She was too dazed by the violence of her ejection to immediately realize what had happened, but from Cullen's position on the floor it was obvious. The wyrd had spontaneously sprouted a new tentacle, right beneath the pustule Isabela had stabbed, and it had thrown her from it with uncompromising force.

"Isabela!" Cullen shouted, but she didn't hear him. Stunned, the next thing Isabela was consciously aware of was the wind being knocked out of her as she hit the flagstones. The impact was painful, and it jarred every bone in her body, but she was alive. It was certainly much less ruinous than it should have been if she had fallen unaided from the height she had climbed.

Wynne was leaning over hear, eyes radiant with the power of Faith, whispering a lyrical healing spell. Isabela blinked, gasping to fill her bruised lungs. She saw Eingana lying nearby, awake but apparently suspended in a cocoon of restorative magic. Isabela tried to sit up, but was pushed back down by a stern hand. While she had elevated her head, Isabela saw Cullen charging towards her with his sword in one hand, shield forgotten.

Wynne made a cutting off motion with her hand. "Go back!" she commanded. "I will heal her – attack it while it's injured!"

Cullen skidded to a halt a few meters away, shoulders heaving for breath. Isabela tried to say something to him, but all she could manage was a groan of pain. Cullen stared at her, and the look in his eyes made something inside her squirm with bittersweet affection.

Cullen visibly steeled himself and turned away. He sheathed his sword, which confused Isabela for a moment until she saw him cross his arms over his chest and hunch his shoulders. White filaments of light threaded towards him from the air all around and coalesced into an escalating glow near his chest. Cullen held the charge many seconds longer than he ever had before, gathering more power than he could comfortably contain. Stubbornly, he persisted despite the increasingly uncomfortable burn in his hands and along his lyrium-infused nerves. Sweat broke along his brow and he gritted his teeth.

"Cullen!" Wynne said, alarmed. "Release it! Do it now, you fool, or you'll kill yourself!"

Nearby, Varric turned from peppering the wyrd's upper trunk with bolts to see what was going on. His eyes widened when he saw the intensity of the glow Cullen was struggling to contain between his arms. Varric turned back towards the battle ahead.

"Stand back!" he yelled. Aveline, Fenris, Merrill, and Justice glanced over when they could and retreated some distance from the wyrd's base.

With a scream of raw exertion, Cullen flung his arms open and released his smite. A pillar of white fire and lightning lanced down from the oculus and engulfed the wyrd in its fury. The entire cathedral trembled, and the dreamers were all forced to throw up an arm to shield their eyes or risk being blinded. The wyrd's howl of pain went on and on even as pulses and beams of energy rolled down over it, burning away its flesh in layers and reducing its tentacles to wrecked filaments of degenerate char.

Cullen fell to his knees with a _clank_ as the column of energy began to dissipate. The wyrd was keening pathetically, twitching and crackling pieces of its seared flesh away, but Cullen didn't appear to notice. From his knees he fell forward, sprawling face-down and apparently unconscious.

"Foolish boy," Wynne groaned.

"Wynne," Isabela said hoarsely. "Go help him."

"My dear-"

"I'm fine, aren't I?" Isabela said, some of the strength returning to her voice. "You've saved my life. Thanks for that – really – but now go save his. Please."

Wynne hesitated only a moment. "Stay there," she said sternly. "Don't get up yet." She rushed off to the fallen templar.

Isabela nodded. She had no intention of disobeying the enchanter, for it took most of the energy she had regained during her brief "rest" to push herself into a sitting position. She could see that once the brilliant fires of Cullen's smite had faded, the others had moved in. Aveline and Fenris were hacking at the wyrd's roots, severing the scorched tendrils now that they had been reduced enough for it to be possible. The Unspoken, finally healed but clearly exhausted, advanced more cautiously and set about permanently disabling some detached bits of wyrd that were still animate and wriggling across the flagstones as if trying to reattach themselves to the central trunk.

Justice was casting a razor-sharp aurora from his hands and staff, blasting a gouge into the wyrd's trunk. On its other side, Merrill's tree had grown almost as tall as the wyrd was. Its spreading canopy was entwined rather bizarrely with the wyrd's upper tentacles, keeping them trapped and immobile. The magical plant's vast canopy jerked and trembled with the wyrd's attempts to free itself, but they were in vain. And Merrill herself...

Isabela blinked and rubbed the heels of her hands in her eyes, unsure if she was seeing correctly. Merrill had climbed some distance up her tree and was standing on one of its lower branches, and she was summoning demons.

"Oh, Kitten," Isabela whispered. "You didn't."

But there could be no mistaking it. Merrill had her bleeding knife raised in one hand, gleaming red, and her other hand clawed forward in a gesture of command. A swarm of shades had appeared, swirling about the wyrd's upper trunk and feeding, draining energy from it. Three desire demons hovered and swooped in a graceful ring farther out, casting some kind of collaborative spell that involved lashing chains of fire.

Still the wyrd raged and fought, howling and bellowing and whipping its remaining tentacles against anything it could reach. The floor around it had become a mire of sludgy blood and soot, burned black from the heat of Cullen's smite. The blasts from Varric and Bianca popping along its trunk seemed to be irritating it the most, but the dwarf was safely out of its range; instead it focused first on Justice, forcing him to take the defensive once again and deflect its strikes and blasts of caustic magic. Then one of the creature's lower tentacles swung around in a long arc, barely missing Aveline's head, and collided with a resonant crash against Merrill's tree. The gigantic plant trembled under the blow; it remained upright, but Merrill was knocked from her perch. Too far away for Wynne to act in time to help, Merrill landed on her side with a sickening _crunch_ and wailed in pain.

"Merrill!" Isabela cried, but she was still weak from her own injuries. The enchanter's powerful magic had healed her, but she was drained, too exhausted even to stand up. Merrill was immobilized, her leg shattered and the warp of her blood magic not yet dissipated enough to allow healing magic to work. She could only cower in terror as the wyrd's clawed tentacle shot out and closed around her.

"No!" Isabela yelled, icy fear clenching around her heart. She reached out vainly, expecting the limb to draw away at any moment and take Merrill with it, perhaps to be thrown into the void beyond the oculus or crushed and sliced apart. Isabela was somewhat relieved, though confused, when it became apparent that the creature's limb was merely pinning Merrill in place; it seemed to have settled for keeping her under control, distracted by Aveline, Fenris, the Unspoken, Justice, and Merrill's demons swarming around its upper trunk.

Several of the pustules located around the wyrd's lower trunk began to burst, expressing new, healthy tentacles in seconds. Each was tipped with the same arrangement of flexible digits and razor-sharp claws, and none wasted any time before flying out at the attacking dreamers, trying to push them back. Varric unloaded explosive bolts into the new limbs as fast as he could load them into Bianca, but there were far too many erupting every minute for him to deal with.

The Unspoken began making his way over towards where Merrill was pinned and helpless. As he clawed his way through one of the wyrd's roots that was in his way, the immense tendril lifted itself suddenly, heaving over to one side and knocking the startled hurlock over. An instant later, it had slammed back down again, crushing the Unspoken beneath it.

Isabela gasped. She had felt the tremor in the flagstones as the wyrd's root collapsed on the Unspoken. The fear that crawled up from her gut at the thought that he might have perished was unexpected and surreal, but wholly authentic.

Fenris launched himself against the offending root, carving into it with a snarl of fury. The tendril lifted itself again to strike at the attacking elf, and from beneath it Isabela faintly heard a thin, keening moan. The Unspoken yet lived, though how long that might last was anyone's guess.

Aveline was tiring, as was Justice. While the Unspoken incapacitated, at least for the moment, and Fenris only avoiding the blows of the root and other newly regenerated tentacles by phasing himself through them, Merrill remained trapped. Seeing this, the Guard-Captain abandoned her efforts at weakening the wyrd's base and began dodging through the storm of claws and limbs striking out at her, making her way towards Merrill.

High above them, the demons Merrill had summoned were all but defeated. A few shades remained, but they were mostly occupied evading tentacles; they were forced to jerk this way and that in mid air, slipping away from grasping claws and unable to deal any damage to the wyrd in return. The desire demons, once it became clear that Merrill could no longer control them, apparently thought better of the situation and fled, one after the other.

Justice was having an increasingly difficult time defending himself against the wyrd's tentacles; more and more of them were sprouting from burst pustules up and down its trunk. These new limbs were not as large or as strong as the ones that had been worn down by magic and sword, but they were just as deadly; what they lacked in muscle power, they made up for with agility and speed. Again and again, Justice was forced to retreat and rely on physical distance as his magical defenses were taxed to their limit. He had been unable to launch an attack of his own for some time.

Worse, the wyrd's increasing number of limbs seemed to be part of a larger effort on its part to regenerate some of the damage it had sustained. It was rippling up and down its length, aglow with sinister red-violet energy and shaking off the crusted outer layers of its flesh that had been burned black or cut apart. It even seemed to be growing slightly in size. Fenris, too, had given up trying to get in any blows of his own; he had dragged the Unspoken out to a relatively safe distance and then raced after Aveline to help Merrill. The two of them were now fighting through a deadly forest of attacking tendrils to where the largest of the wyrd's remaining limbs held the elf pinned.

Of the ten dreamers, only one was still actually attacking the wyrd, and that was Varric. His brow was beaded with sweat and he had gone to one knee in exhaustion, but still the dwarf kept up his relentless load-fire-reload rhythm. But Isabela had fought around Varric for long enough that she could tell from the increasingly grating sounds Bianca produced that the crossbow's mechanism was wearing down, perhaps even on the verge of failing completely.

Isabela watched the spectacle before her with mounting fear. They had seemed to be winning there for a while... what had happened? What could they possibly have done differently? Was there even still a chance?

_Yes_, was her instinctive thought. _There must be_. Wynne's presence nearby reassured her with the calm but palpable power of her spirit companion. But what could they do?

Wynne had revived Cullen, though the templar seemed to have overexerted himself rather intensely with his smite. He had rolled onto his back with some difficulty, but he seemed too weak to sit up just yet.

"Idiot boy," Wynne muttered as she trailed a hand streaming golden rejuvenation magic over Cullen's body. "You might have burned out your nervous system. What were you thinking?"

Cullen coughed. He tried to rise, invigorated by Wynne's magic, but she forced him back down with an imperious hand on his breastplate. "That thing needs to die, Wynne. _It needs to die._"

He caught Isabela's eye, and for a moment his expression froze. Then he smiled, clearly glad to see she was okay. Isabela gave him a half-amused, half-exasperated look in return, saying with her eyes, _What _were_ you thinking?_

Next to her, Eingana groaned. She rocked back and forth a few times, testing the limits of the ovoid bubble of restorative magic that surrounded her.

"Wynne," Eingana muttered. "Hey... Wynne! Let me out of this thing."

Wynne flared her fingers in a casting gesture and the bubble dispersed.

Eingana sat up gingerly. "What's going on?"

"I think we're losing," Isabela said tightly. Eingana looked over towards the battle.

At that moment, Varric was in the process of backpedaling towards them. It was becoming horribly apparent that its sudden profusion of tentacles had been nothing more than a distraction by the wyrd to draw his fire away from a new, specialized limb it was producing. It was a long, slender whip, coiled and flexible and tipped with a single deadly spine. As Eingana and Isabela watched tensely, the whip snapped out with surgical aim in Varric's direction.

The dwarf leapt nimbly backwards with a vile curse, barely avoiding being impaled. The whip's spine instead impacted the flagstones, causing a small explosion of blackened chunks of masonry that blasted out from its point of impact. The whip coiled again and retreated, weaving back and forth like a snake, its slender cross-section providing a much more difficult target for Varric and Bianca's return fire.

Off to the left, Aveline and Fenris had finally battled their way to where Merrill lay crippled and trapped. Impatiently, Fenris severed the tentacle's hand at its "wrist" while Aveline fended off attack from the wyrd's multiple newer, faster limbs. Merrill let out a pained, disgusted groan as she was showered with the wyrd's foul-smelling ichor, but she didn't protest as Fenris leaned down and heaved her onto his shoulder. She did cry out as her broken leg bounced against his armour, but among her gasps and sobs of pain Merrill also found enough breath to thank her rescuers profusely. Aveline and Fenris began making their way towards Wynne, Varric, Isabela, Cullen, and Eingana with Merrill in tow.

Across the battlefield, Justice was also retreating, limping heavily and clutching one arm across his stomach. He was badly wounded, having narrowly avoided bisection by razor claws. The energy barrier that was all that stood between Justice and the wyrd's onslaught was pallid, flickering and uneven in its intensity. The spirit was exhausted, drained already from his long ordeal with Hawke and the ensuing battle with the wyrd. He did, however, have enough strength left to gather the unmoving body of the Unspoken on a cloud of gentle azure magic and bring the hurlock with him as he fled.

"We must fall back," Justice ground out as he reached Varric and Wynne, followed a few moments later by Aveline, Fenris, and Merrill. Wynne herself was now on the defensive, having turned her attention from Cullen and Eingana to maintaining a wall of force that had succeeded thus far in deflecting torrents of purple-black magic the wyrd was spitting in her direction. The whipcord limb the creature had spawned to attack Varric had been joined by five more just like it; the dwarf was forced to retreat behind Wynne's barrier against their combined assault, and the shield was now trembling under repeated lancing strikes.

"Back," Justice repeated. "This battle is lost. We must regroup, and disallow the creature to wear us down any further before we can regain the offensive. Are there any objections?"

He glared around at them all, blue eyes shining fiercely. There were no objections.

"Good," Justice said. "Prepare yourselves. I will carry us out to a safe distance, as I did earlier. Wynne-?"

"Hurry," the elderly mage gasped. Isabela looked over at her, alarmed at the strain in Wynne's voice. She was clearly struggling to maintain the barrier that was all that stood between them and the escalating storm of darkness and whipcord tentacles that the wyrd was launching.

Merrill was still draped over Fenris's shoulder, her staff clutched weakly in one hand, but she still raised the magical weapon and whispered a few words, shoring up the defense with the mana she could muster. Her contribution came just in time; the barrier flickered as eight whipcord tentacles snapped into it simultaneously. Wynne groaned softly and faltered, but the barrier held on with Merrill's help.

Justice raised his staff and his free hand and began to summon the magic needed to move them out of danger. Varric and Aveline helped Cullen and Eingana, and then Isabela, climb stiffly to their feet. At Justice's nod, Fenris leaned down and carefully placed Merrill on the ground next to the battered, unconscious hurlock. If their circumstances had been different, Isabela might have made a lewd comment about the two elves finally managing to get along; as it was, she was far too tired, stressed, and frightened to make the attempt.

Justice's staff had become the epicenter of bright swirl of energy. It encompassed all ten of them, reaching out faint tendrils to draw lightly along Isabela's skin and that of the others. Isabela could feel no trace of the magic, and the sight of it passing through her body like smoke was mildly unnerving.

"On three, I will cast," Justice warned. "One."

The whirling magic brightened considerably. Isabela squinted, catching Cullen's eye. He looked as exhausted as she felt.

"Justice!" Wynne said urgently at the same time Merrill let out a moan, shuddered, and passed out.

"Two..." the spirit muttered.

"We cannot – _hold_-"

The mage fell to her knees with a cry of pain. The aura around her hands died, and the pellucid glow of her skin dimmed as the barrier fell. Tentacles and a storm of dark magic flooded towards them. Isabela opened her mouth to scream.

"Three!"

The wyrd's fury contracted to a single dark point, infinitely distant, as the winds of the Fade pushed the dreamers gently into a soft, calming light. Isabela floated in blissful haze for several long, quiet moments.

When she came back to herself, Isabela felt better, focused and at least moderately rested. She felt a renewed surge of confidence as she glanced around, instinctively counting to make sure everyone had arrived safely.

Justice's spell had rejuvenated the others somewhat as well, though his own weariness had limited its effectiveness. Eingana and Cullen were fully alert once again, and the numerous wounds, not all of them minor, that covered the two of them as well as Aveline and Fenris had been healed. Merrill was awake and looked better, though her leg was still swollen and covered in ghastly bruises. The Unspoken fared worse; he was conscious, but the force with which the wyrd had slammed its root down on him had very nearly collapsed his thoracic cavity and crushed all four limbs.

Wynne immediately stood up straight and intensified her healing aura, releasing soft pulses every few seconds that began the delicate process of gradually healing the hurlock's many injuries and Merrill's leg.

Isabela turned a dark gaze towards the wyrd. Its trunk was a column of singular darkness in the distance, an ominous stain against the white gloom of the empty cathedral. The roots emanating from its base had spread further since their narrow escape, and its newly-expressed whipcord tentacles filled the space all around it. Wisps and traces of its caustic magic swirled about it like an attendant cloud of insects. The flagstones all around the creature, where they were not ripped up and smashed, were scorched black by its earlier eruption from the vortex of shrouds. And even out here, far away from the horrible thing, Isabela could _hear_ it – a vast, far-off grinding wail, like the roar of a burning building interspersed with the screams of the dying.

A cool gauntlet closed tentatively around Isabela's hand. She looked over to see Cullen beside her, his face dirty and exhausted and lined with worry. He seemed ten years older than he had the night before, in Hawke's bedroom. Despite his obvious fear, the templar made an effort to smile reassuringly, and Isabela felt a stirring within her respond to his concern. She said nothing as she looked back towards the wyrd, but she did squeeze his hand, and felt a little twinge of affection when he squeezed back.

"Does anyone else feel that?" Varric asked.

"What?" Aveline said.

"That chilly breeze of bleakness and despair that just wafted through."

"Varric," Aveline said reprovingly.

The dwarf threw up his hands. "What? What do you suggest we do, Aveline? We tried. We tried very, very hard, and please don't misunderstand me when I say I think it was a genuinely heroic effort. I'm not exaggerating. But it wasn't enough."

"Oh, don't say that," Merrill protested. Her voice was weak with weariness and pain; Justice was kneeling beside her, healing her leg, but the severity of her injury meant it was taking some time. "There must be _something_ we can do, surely! What if we..."

Her voice trailed off. Aveline grunted and rested her forehead in one hand. She glanced at Eingana, who looked back with a worried frown.

"If we're going to kill this thing, we need to try something else," Varric said firmly. "We're all extremely lucky to be alive, as it is."

"I agree with Varric," Fenris spoke up. "We threw everything we had against the creature and still it lives – thrives, even." He gestured unnecessarily to illustrate his point. The wyrd raged in the distance, in the midst of a cyclone of deadly tendrils and dark magic. "Our best was not good enough."

Wynne let out a sigh as she stood up from a kneeling position next to the Unspoken, pulling herself upright with difficulty and using her staff as a crutch. Eingana helped the newly restored hurlock to his feet. The Unspoken moved stiffly, not quite fully back to normal – but, Isabela thought, as Varric had said – he was lucky to be moving at all.

"The creature... I am thinking it is not dying in this form," the Unspoken rasped. "It is having too much power. We are needing more blades, and more arms to carry them."

"What – more dreamers?" Eingana said. She shook her head. "Impossible. We would need to leave the Fade... find more fighters and recruit them... and then we would need to find even more mages to cast the ritual to send us all back. The odds of us managing all that are... negligible."

"Even if we could," Fenris interjected, "I do not think it would be wise to leave that _thing_-" he pointed "here in the Fade, as it is now. The entire point of this blasted campaign was to kill it and save Hawke. What has become of the projection of his mind? _Is_ there even still a Hawke left to save?"

He looked at Justice, who glared back. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before the spirit answered Fenris's question.

"I cannot say," he said, his resonant voice soft and filled with regret. "I no longer sense Michael Hawke, nor have I for some time. There was a point where I believed that was immaterial and that his spark remained alive, somewhere within – somewhere it might be retrieved and healed. But now... seeing what the creature has become, and is still becoming... I believe that is unlikely."

Merrill let out a choking sob. Nobody spoke, and for a time there was no other audible sound but for the distant, trembling roar emanating from the wyrd. Isabela squeezed her eyes shut against the hot prickle of tears. She covered her mouth with the back of one hand, willing herself not to cry. _Oh, Hawke..._

Then Wynne cleared her throat, and Isabela looked at her. The others followed suit.

"There is one option remaining to us," the enchanter said quietly. "I had hoped not to have to use it..."

She let out a wistful sigh and gazed in the wyrd's direction. "Foolish, of course. It is all we have."

Eingana moved suddenly, walking over to stand in front of Wynne with an alarmed expression. She took the mage's hands in hers, and something Isabela saw in the Warden-Commander's eyes set of alarm bells of her own. It wasn't just concern – it was fear, deep and real.

"Wynne," Eingana began.

Wynne shook her head and cut her off. "Hush – hush, child." She spoke so quietly that Isabela barely heard her: "You knew as well as I did that this could end no other way."

Eingana's face crumpled and she turned away abruptly. She wiped roughly at her eyes, and Isabela caught the sparkle of tears. For a moment, breathing was impossible. _Surely she doesn't mean..._

"What?" Aveline demanded. She looked at Justice as if hoping for answers from him as well, but he was only staring suspiciously at the enchanter.

"Yes, what?" Cullen said. "What is this, Wynne? What do you intend?"

"There is no other choice," Wynne said gently. "The wyrd must die. It _will_ die, and Michael will be saved."

"Saved?" Fenris said sharply. "How do you mean? Whatever you intend to do – it will return him to the way he was, before the wyrd?"

Wynne shook her head. "No. The man Michael was before the wyrd is lost forever. It has held him in its grip too long. But I... _we_, Faith and I, can restore the man he is. He will simply be – different."

"Different how?" Fenris pressed.

Wynne shook her head. "I cannot say. But there is no other way. Now, I am going to ask you all to do something difficult, but you must trust me."

"What-" Cullen started, exchanging a helpless glance with Isabela. Eingana was still refusing to look at anyone.

"Throw yourselves into one final effort," Wynne urged. "Give the creature everything you have, everything you can afford to throw at it. Distract it. Rend its flesh apart, reduce its presence, reduce its power. I will enchant your weapons. If you can keep it busy for a scant few more minutes, I will call what is needed and do what must be done. The wyrd will die and Michael will be saved."

"No," Fenris objected. "First I must know what you intend to do."

"Me too," Varric said. "I don't much like the idea of voluntarily going towards that thing-" he gestured with his head "without knowing what's going to happen."

Merrill bit her lip and nodded. "That _would_ be very helpful."

"I agree," Aveline said.

"As do I," Cullen added.

Isabela nodded. "You can't just ask us to walk into the Void without giving us a way back out," she said.

Wynne was unmoved. "There _will_ be a way out." Her voice took on a distinct resonance, and the glow in her eyes flared. The presence of the spirit of Faith was detectable and warm.

"You must trust me," Wynne said.

Eingana turned around to face the others. She looked miserable.

"Do... do as Wynne says," she said hoarsely. "Please, everyone. I know it's a lot to swallow on faith alone, but we must. We _must_."

"Eingana," Cullen said softly. "This is your-"

"I know, Cullen," Eingana burst out angrily. A single tear rolled down her left cheek. "I know everything you're going to say and it changes nothing."

Throughout the discussion, Justice had remained silent. When Isabela looked over at him, he was staring at Wynne with a hard, brittle expression. The light that shone from his eyes and flowed in channels all over his body pulsed like a heartbeat.

"Are you certain?" Justice said suddenly, cutting off Cullen, who was about to reply to Eingana. All eyes went to the possessed mage.

"I am," Wynne said calmly.

"He will not thank you for it," Justice said severely. "Nor will Anders."

"I am content with that," Wynne replied. "Do you see another option, Justice? Does Anders?"

Justice frowned and looked away with a grunt. Wynne's eyes were filled with steely determination, and were oddly bright – with tears, Isabela realized. She wished she knew what they were talking about.

"You have... no idea at all what it will do to him," Justice argued somewhat uncertainly. He seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as Wynne.

"Yes I do." Wynne reached out and took Justice's hands. "Look at me."

He did, and a moment of wordless connection passed between them. Justice subsided, retreating inwards and the fires of his power fading. The light in Anders's eyes went out; for a moment he was nothing but himself, a mage and a man.

"Wynne..." Anders whispered. His voice broke. He seemed about to cry. "Thank you."

Wynne smiled kindly. "He will need your help, you know. At least at first."

"Yes." Anders reached out and folded Wynne in a tender embrace. She rubbed his back reassuringly.

Isabela wanted badly to ask what was going to happen. It seemed obvious enough from Eingana's and Justice's reactions that Wynne would not survive whatever magic she was going to invoke. But what possible benefit could come from the elderly mage sacrificing herself? What power was there that carried such a price?

Blood magic? Impossible, Isabela thought. But if not that, then what?

Aveline shook her head. "Nothing for it," she muttered. "Wynne – whatever you're about to do – thank you."

"Thank you," Merrill agreed.

"I'm still not sure about this," Varric grumbled. "But I know ominous foreshadowing when I see it. Thank you, Wynne, and... and..." He sighed. "It's been... I mean, I've... Maker damn it."

Wynne gave him a tearful smile. "I understand, Varric," she said. "It has been my honour and my pleasure, as well. Do not despair. We _shall_ see each other again... but only once."

Varric smiled back. "Alright then. I'll hold you to that."

Wynne urged him forward with one hand, holding her staff tightly in the other. "Go," she said. "Charge. I will take care of the rest."

Aveline gripped her sword and looked around. "Shall we?" she said, lifting her shield.

Cullen drew his sword, as did Fenris. Eingana had lost her mundane longsword, but she had her enchanted blade raised and ready. Varric hefted Bianca, Merrill and Justice readied their staffs, and the Unspoken retrieved his bladed staff from where it rested on the flagstones nearby. Isabela fingered the handles of her knives, eager to kill the thing and have this whole nightmare over with.

"Ready," she said.

Aveline turned without another word and began to jog towards the wyrd. The others followed. Isabela looked back, once; Wynne was standing serenely, the aura of her spirit companion brighter and more palpable than ever. She smiled encouragingly, and Isabela turned back to the battle ahead, comforted.

She caught up with Justice and Merrill as a tide of golden energy washed over them from behind. When the light touched Isabela's knives, they burst with elemental magic, spitting fire and lightning and trailing clouds of frost and acidic vapours. All around her, various swords and blades had ignited with the same effect. Isabela could sense the heat and the sheer intensity of the power thrumming through her knives, but she never felt so much as a spark of discomfort. Whatever extraordinary magic Wynne had invoked, it was also apparently selective in where it spent its fury.

"Merrill!" Justice called. The elf looked over at him as they jogged. The wyrd was unquestionably aware of their approach; its clusters of whipcord tentacles were all pointing their direction like so many hungry snakes, waiting to strike.

"Help me cast a tempest," Justice said. "With its focus in the heights. We must keep the creature's limbs under control – frozen, perhaps, or shocked, so that it does not simply pluck us all into its claws and separate us."

Merrill nodded. "Okay," she said. "I'm better with lightning than ice."

Justice smiled with a kind of unsettling bloodlust Isabela had never before seen in Anders or his volatile spirit. "Leave the ice to me."

The two mages hung back and began to work their spell as the others moved on. Varric fired a volley of explosive bolts into the wyrd's trunk, still running, as soon as he reached Bianca's maximum range. Each of the blasts carried spears of frost and long, dancing sparks aside from the expected flame – evidently Wynne's magic worked on Varric's limitless supply of bolts as well.

The wyrd shrieked in pain, and a moment later the first wave of its whipcords snapped out in retaliation. Aveline and Cullen deflected a few with their shields, but there were far too many to protect against them all. Eingana and Fenris surged forward, blades alight and spinning wildly, slicing apart the attacking tendrils handfuls at a time.

Their sudden, violent assault, perhaps unexpected after the wyrd had inflicted such terrible damage to so many of the dreamers not long prior, seemed to take the creature by surprise. After its first wave of whipcords had been more-or-less repulsed, the others briefly subsided.

Isabela and the Unspoken were the first through the gap, tearing savagely into the nearest root. Fenris, Aveline, Cullen, and Eingana weren't far behind; Varric remained at a distance, blasting away swarms of whipcords that grew too bold with expertly-aimed explosive blasts.

Isabela threw herself into this final effort, screaming obscenities at the wyrd as she sank her blades into its flesh again and again, wherever she could reach. She hardly noticed that its quivering mass charred and withered at the touch of the primal magic her knives spat continuously. Tears were streaming down Isabela's face as she thought of all the pain and misery the vile creature had caused to so many, herself included but also so many people she cared most about.

The others were attacking all around her with similar passion. The Unspoken cackled gleefully as he sliced one of the wyrd's roots into disconnected segments. Fenris phased himself and rammed right into the central column, driving his greatsword ahead of him and twisting it around to spread the devastation of its elemental magic. Eingana busied herself slicing off entire roots at the base, gritting her teeth and shouting wordless battle cries. Meanwhile, Aveline and Cullen kept on either side of the others at all times, knocking back the whipcords that curled around the wyrd's trunk to defend it.

The ambient pallid light of the cathedral darkened from above. Isabela glanced up in mid-snarl, seeing a torus of roiling black storm clouds converging on the wyrd's upper trunk from all around it. The clouds positively heaved with barely-contained fury; the chill of their blizzards waiting to be unleashed could be felt even at floor level, and lightning flashed continuously within. Isabela grinned at the sight and threw a glance back at Merrill and Justice, standing side-by-side and safely out of range of easy retaliation by the wyrd.

Unfortunately, that only meant it had more tendrils to focus on the dreamers attacking its base. As the first violent cones of lightning lanced out from the storm clouds to savage the wyrd's upper trunk, swarms of whipcord tendrils moved in to assault Aveline and Cullen from every possible angle. They came from around the left and right of the wyrd's base, from out and around down low, from directly above and everywhere in between. Thunderous _booms_ from the magical storm above drowned out Aveline's words, but the next time she spoke Isabela just barely made out what she said:

"Help us!" the Guard-Captain yelled. "There are too many!"

Isabela turned around and rushed to Aveline's side just as a whipcord flashed out of the writhing swarm all around them and snatched Aveline's shield. It promptly vanished back into the mass, taking her dented shield with it.

"Bastard!" Aveline yelled, slashing her sword at the tendrils trying to get to her now that she had lost her most effective means of defense. "That belonged to Wesley!"

"It's not real, Aveline," Isabela pointed out to the Guard-Captain, fighting beside her to protect her right flank from whipcords. "This is the Fade. Your real shield is still fine."

"I _know_ that," Aveline snapped. "It's the principle of the thing."

Fenris, Eingana, the Unspoken, and Cullen joined them, presenting a wedge-shaped defense against the wyrd's many whipcords with their backs to the creature's own trunk. A moment later, the tempest Merrill and Justice had conjured broke in earnest, unleashing a devastating fury of lightning and ice shards against the central column.

"Someone check every now and then to make sure it doesn't spit magic at us from behind," Eingana said as she repelled advancing tendrils with her fiery blade.

Isabela threw a glance behind her when she had a chance. The wyrd's flesh was slashed and burned from their previous assault, gaping brokenly and pumping rivers of sludge onto the flagstones.

"I don't think that's a major concern at this point," Isabela said as she turned back around in time to cut off the ends of several whipcords with a single slash. "But the damned thing's bleeding – watch you don't slip on its muck."

Beyond the swarms of whipcords, Varric and Bianca were still covering the others with rapid-fire salvos of exploding bolts. Merrill had taken over maintaining the wild tempest that had now condensed around the wyrd's upper trunk, tearing off entire clusters of whipcords at a time with its brutal lightning. Justice, meanwhile, had his arms raised and was casting an azure aurora against the trunk, weaving it back and forth and severing any tendril that tried to dip below it to attack the dreamers at the base.

Beyond Varric and the mages, Isabela caught a glimpse every now and then of Wynne, her body blindingly alight with the power of her spirit companion. She had lost all definition as a humanoid shape – all Isabela could see was a blue-white sun. She couldn't tell what Wynne was doing because of this, but she could see that several pillars of light had appeared and were spreading out from Wynne's position along a vast arc, spearing upwards from the flagstones.

Isabela looked up when she had a chance, curious and not a little afraid of what Wynne might be doing. To her surprise, the shafts of light weren't as straight as they appeared: every one of them curved inward and then outward again, bending over to slip upwards into the oculus. The overall effect was of a vast, vaguely described hourglass-like shape centered on the wyrd.

The cathedral was suddenly rocked by a violent tremor as the wyrd let out an enraged bellow. Isabela, Eingana, the Unspoken, Fenris, Cullen, and Aveline were all knocked over, only barely managing not to fall lower than to their knees. The entire furious horde of whipcords writhing and swarming all around them attacked immediately.

Isabela tensed, certain that she was about to die – _we tried, Wynne, I hope it was enough_ – but a fraction of a second before the wyrd would have impaled her dozens of times over, a powerful magical barrier flashed into existence before the dreamers. Looking around in wonder, Isabela realized that it encased them completely in an impenetrable bubble.

Outside the shield, catastrophic magical explosions ensued, punctuated every now and then by a more mundane chemical burst from Varric and Bianca. The whipcords shriveled and thrashed, trying vainly to escape from whatever Justice and Merrill were doing, but in vain.

The explosions continued. When Isabela looked upwards she realized with a start of awe that the magical tempest was slowly descending, ripping into the wyrd's flesh wherever its bolts of lightning or ice impacted but leaving the dreamers sheltering in the bubble untouched. Glancing behind her, Isabela realized that their protective bubble was not entirely complete; it cut off where it intersected the trunk, leaving a swath of lacerated flesh exposed.

"Come on!" Isabela said, leaping up and raising her knives. She leapt forward, slipping a little on the mire of wyrd blood that coated the broken flagstones. The others turned at her cry, and a moment later they had joined her in resuming their work of savaging the creature with vengeful glee.

"What was it Wynne said?" Aveline asked as she joined Isabela and delivered a grievous vertical slash to the wyrd's trunk. "'Rend its flesh apart, reduce its presence, reduce its power'? This must be what she meant. We have to cut as much of it away as we can."

"Fine by me," Isabela said, and they set to work.

The Unspoken's bladed hooks, dripping liquid fire and spewing clouds of acidic vapour, turned out to the most effective means of removing the wyrd's flesh in volume. Isabela took to cutting long, horizontal slashes and then stepping back to allow the hurlock to move in with his weapon and excise large chunks. Beside her, Fenris phased himself into the trunk and opened entire caverns of featureless purple-black muscle and pulsing veins that glittered blackly with malevolent magic. It was a nauseating task, but Isabela forced aside her disgust with grim resignation.

She had no idea how long they went on like that, making their way ever deeper into the creature and casting off pieces of it, wading through the sickening wash of its fluid that eventually came up to just below their knees. Isabela's favourite boots were a long way past completely ruined, but she consoled herself that if she survived whatever was going to happen – fairly soon, she sensed – their counterparts in the real world would be undamaged.

Isabela was just starting to wonder, with creeping terror, if they would eventually come across Michael Hawke embedded in a horrid tomb of evil, nasty flesh feeding off his mind and his rage when light unexpectedly broke down on them from above. So focused on their task and having tunneled a considerable distance into the creature, the six of them had all but lost sight of what was going on outside. They could still hear the roar of the storm, but nothing else.

Isabela looked up, startled, as the cold white light fell across her face. Aveline and Cullen paused to either side of her. Fenris and Eingana, currently taking their turn carving the way forward, leapt backwards in fright as the wall of quivering muscle in front of them suddenly dissolved into filmy ooze.

Beyond it was a whirling, roaring column of black energy, a pillar of stomach-churning _wrongness_, looking at which made Isabela feel like she was teetering on the brink of insanity, peering over the edge of the universe into the chaos without. It was producing a high-pitched howling noise like that of a strong wind, but faint, as if from far away. The pillar spun continuously upwards, interspersed with white sparkles that reminded her of stars in a night sky and threaded through with a single, continuous red ribbon. Behind the ribbon, outlined here and there in the patterns of the stars and the rolling black plasma, Isabela thought she could make out a familiar scowling face.

With a shock of frigid terror, she realized what she was looking at. The idea made her skin crawl.

"This... this is it," Cullen breathed, echoing Isabela's thoughts. "This is its core. The pure wyrd, stripped of its flesh."

"Look!" Aveline gasped, pointing up.

Isabela looked up into an even more startling and wondrous sight: the open cathedral above them. The shell of magic Justice had conjured to protect his fellow dreamers from the storm seemed to have traveled with them as they tunneled into the trunk and now hovered protectively overhead. The twisting core that was the quintessential wyrd – and its host trapped within – meandered upwards as far as she could see, piercing the barrier and rising into the oculus. Around it, Merrill's and Justice's tempest still raged, burning away what was left of the wyrd's central trunk. And beyond that magical fury, hovering in a tranquil ring about the black pillar, were the pearly, luminescent orbs that Isabela had seen hovering just outside the oculus. Each of these was situated at the nexus of a bright beam of energy, tinted a clean blue-white that contrasted brutally against the sick, cancerous black of the wyrd's core. The beams spread out in all directions, and the circlet of orbs at their convergence was slowly, inexorably, drifting ever downwards, following the storm.

Isabela was stunned speechless, but disparate items of information gradually pieced themselves together in her mind. The beams, she realized, were the same shafts of light Wynne had conjured, connected to the orbs that had waited for so long outside. Some enigmatic but powerful force resided with those spheres, and it had provided the final burst needed to break through the wyrd's defenses and burn away its flesh. It was this power that Wynne and her spirit companion had contacted out of desperate necessity – though to what terrible cost was as yet unknown.

"What do you think we should do?" Isabela said. "Wait for their magic to wear away the rest of the flesh, and then we all attack the core together?"

Cullen shook his head. "I do not think we can afford to wait," he said. "Look there."

He pointed up, and Isabela followed his gaze. The walls of charred wyrd-matter around them were being continuously blasted away by the ferocious lightning-shot blizzard, but they were regenerating at an astonishing speed – growing back, creeping upwards almost as fast as the storm wore them down.

"Merrill and Justice are barely keeping it in check," Cullen said grimly. "I suspect that whatever magic Enchanter Wynne has called upon is the only reason they and we have gotten this far."

"What, then?" Aveline asked. She looked over at the silent Warden-Commander. "Eingana – it seemed like you knew what Wynne and Justice were talking about, back there. What do you think? Should we attack, or wait for those..." she gestured vaguely at the circlet of spheres. "Whatever _those_ are to make their way down here?"

Eingana chewed her lip for a moment, glancing up at the spheres. "I don't know," she said slowly. "My gut is telling me we need to attack the core now, while it's occupied sustaining its shell. The longer we wait, the likelier it is to notice us here. If it does, and we can't put it back on the defensive _immediately_..."

"What?" Isabela wondered when Eingana stopped short of completing her thought.

"It would be bad," Eingana said. The look on her face was enough to convince Isabela that she didn't want to know anything more specific than that.

"Let me try something," Eingana added. She stepped forward with her longsword raised. With the elemental fire of Wynne's spell added onto the formidable enchantments the blade already possessed, it was doubtless the deadliest weapon among those present. Eingana gripped it with both hands and executed a short, powerful thrust into the rotating column.

The blade spat fire instantly, and the wyrd's core reeled away from it. An earsplitting screech of agony ripped the air around them. The intensity of the column's whirling energy intensified dramatically, and its radius expanded.

Eingana reared back, deeply unwilling to let the crawling sickness touch her skin. Isabela didn't blame her at all.

"Attack it!" Eingana yelled. "Attack now, but don't touch it!"

As one, they moved in. Isabela darted around the core to make room for Aveline and Cullen, who were less agile in their heavy armour. Fenris lunged forward and pierced the core with his greatsword at the same time the Unspoken slashed downward with his hooks. The twisting column writhed and shrieked, spitting shreds of star-studded blackness back at them.

One such bolt grazed the side of Aveline's armour; where it touched, her metal Guard-Captain's plate flashed molten at once, dripping tainted slag down her breastplate. Aveline cried out in pain as the liquid metal burned her skin through the padding, but she never stopped slicing away pieces of the core with her sword. Cullen followed suit, and Isabela moved in and out to cut with her knives whenever there were no shreds raveling off the core and careening in her direction. All six of them were lit continuously with a warm orange glow by the furious sparks and flames leaping out of their weapons.

They took their time wearing down at the core, prioritizing defense over offense –none of them had any desire to see what had happened to Aveline's armour happen to anything or anyone else. As they stabbed and slashed and pieces of the core spun off of it in retaliation, its initial surge in intensity subsided. Wynne's enchantment, it seemed, allowed their weapons to work on the wyrd's very essence.

Isabela glanced upward as she paused to catch her breath after narrowly avoiding losing an arm to the core. She was elated to see that the spheres had continued their gradual descent. The circlet was now less than two meters overhead, and the power issuing from its components could almost be sensed in the air, like a faint vibration accompanied by a barely-audible crystalline hum.

With its core being burned away, the wyrd was also less able to regenerate itself. The storm had worn down its trunk to just below the level of the spheres. It was almost as if their radiant magic was pushing the wyrd down; as they descended, torrents of lightning and hailstones continued to erode the column of flesh.

Isabela felt a surge of confidence and joy at the sight. They were doing it! Whatever the spheres were, Wynne's spell had worked. Victory was within their grasp!

"Come on, guys!" Isabela called, stepping forward to scissor her knives through the core. "We're nearly there!"

Her euphoria ended abruptly an instant later as her attack parted a slice of the core like curtains, and she was suddenly face-to-face with Michael Hawke. His arms were stretched almost out of their sockets, ensnared and pulled in opposite directions. The wyrd's black filth slithered across his skin, around his neck and over his face, into his mouth, nose, and ears. His eyes were wide open, empty black pits, and he was bellowing madly as he thrashed this way and that – though whether in agony or rage was unclear.

Isabela screamed and recoiled as Hawke lurched forward, snarling at her and spitting a worm of darkness right at her face. Terror made her heart stop, but Isabela's instinctive reaction saved her life; she shoved herself to one side, and the scrap of wyrd-essence that should have decapitated her instead only ripped open her shoulder and neck.

Cullen caught her as she fell, gasping and crying at the pain and the horror of what she had just witnessed. The wyrd's core had closed again, hiding Hawke from view, but in her mind Isabela could still see him with perfect clarity, trapped and screaming in that awful, toxic Void, horrid fingers of foul darkness squirming and forcing their way into his head. She shuddered and sobbed, clutching at her gashed neck, fighting down the urge to vomit. His eyes had been so empty, and yet at the same time so paradoxically full of insane anguish. She couldn't even begin to imagine what Michael Hawke was suffering right then.

"Isabela!" Cullen was saying, but she hardly heard him. "Calm down! Relax, I'll bind it! It missed your jugular, you're fine!"

He was tugging insistently on the hand she had clenched over her wound. Nervelessly, Isabela let him pull it away. She tried to blink away her tears and regain control of her breathing as the templar pressed a wad of gauze he'd produced from his armour against her neck. Isabela closed her eyes and breathed in Cullen's scent, trying to turn her mind away from what she had seen. The sight of Hawke being violated so horrifically by the wyrd would visit her nightmares for a long, long time afterwards.

"Ho!" called a resonant voice. Isabela opened her eyes. Aveline, Eingana, Fenris, and the Unspoken were slowly forcing the wyrd's core to contract, but it was a constant battle to keep it from forcing itself back outwards again; they couldn't afford to let up for a moment. Beyond them, Justice, Varric, and Merrill had appeared in the mouth of the gruesome tunnel carved through the trunk.

Justice's aura was afire, casting bright azure light into the humid warmth of the core chamber. He strode forward, Merrill at his heels and Varric not far behind.

Seeing what the others were doing, the dwarf immediately raised Bianca and fired a salvo of enchanted bolts into the core. Merrill, her delicate face set and frowning determinedly, spun her staff before her and cast her hands outwards. An arc of fire washed upwards and was sucked into the wyrd's energy column, withering it from the inside. All the magic Merrill cast that missed the core splashed against the barrier above, just centimeters beyond which hung the circlet of spheres. The reflected fire danced down into the column, burning away even more of the cancerous filth within.

Justice hurried around the rim of the chamber to where Isabela still lay in Cullen's arms. The templar was applying firm pressure to her wound, but Isabela could feel blood still welling up vigorously beneath the gauze. The pain wasn't the worst she had ever felt, but that didn't make it any less unbearable.

Justice knelt next to her and reached out with a bloom of comforting blue aglow about his hand. Cullen removed the gauze, provoking a pained whimper from Isabela. Justice touched her skin gently, and Isabela sighed in relief at the cool, soothing sensation of the magic. The pain drained away over a few seconds, and she murmured her gratitude.

The image of Hawke bound and screaming in the wyrd's core flashed black into her mind, and Isabela groaned. She opened her eyes to see Justice looking at her. The thought of Anders seeing the man he loved in such torment made her want to start crying again. Part of her wanted to spare him the knowledge, but she knew also that he would need to know.

"Anders," Isabela said tearfully. "Or – Justice. He's... there."

"What?"

"Hawke's there," Isabela choked out. She pointed weakly. "In the... in the core. He's in pain, Anders." She stifled a sob, thinking of the raw agony and hatred she had heard in Hawke's cry. "You have to help him."

Justice's face twisted in anger and he nodded. "Rest, Isabela," he said with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Our ordeal is nearly over."

He stood up purposefully and turned around, raising his staff.

"Hawke!" Justice shouted, and though his eyes and skin fairly crackled with the spirit's intensity, his voice sounded much more like Anders. "You must hold on but a few minutes longer! We are nearly there!"

All around them, the wyrd's trunk had been blasted and torn away by the conjured tempest outside. It had been reduced to a ring-shaped wall of rotting muscle and black sludge that surrounded them, spreading outwards in a splatter of twitching, bleeding roots and dead whipcord tentacles. The storm, its purpose largely complete, was subsiding at last, and the barrier fell. The circlet of spheres now hovered patiently around them like a ring of spectators.

The core itself had been peeled down to a bare, writhing filament that hung down from the distant oculus. It was barely a hands' breadth in radius except for just above the flagstones, between the dreamers. There, it churned in a sluggish cone-shape, through which flashes of bruised skin and blood-soaked hair were frequently visible.

"Stand back," Justice said in a voice of deadly calm to the others. "I must strike the final blow."

Aveline, Fenris, Eingana, the Unspoken, Merrill, and Varric all took a step backwards without a word of protest. Isabela could see that all of them understood, even the hurlock. They hung back respectfully, waiting for Justice to make his move. Cullen helped Isabela to her feet and they drew back as well.

Justice spun his staff around, creating a wheel of bright blue fire and drawing it back to strike. His face was twisted in an angry scowl, glaring fiercely at his enemy.

When the others had stopped slicing away at it, the core had begun to bubble outwards again, rebuilding its essence. As Justice was preparing to strike, black power suddenly erupted from the column in ragged waves, and Hawke stumbled out of it. The blackness clung to him like the sticky silk of a spider's web, rolling off his shoulders and wrapped around his arms and legs. Hawke reached out jerkily, grabbing the stunned mage with clawed hands.

"_Anders_," Hawke said thickly in a warped, inhuman voice. Filth dripped from his mouth and nose, and his eyes were nothing but empty holes. "_Help... me_. _Please._"

"Merciful Creators," Merrill moaned. Aveline swore colourfully, and Fenris spat something in Tevinter. Isabela turned away in distress, sickened and terrified. Cullen folded her in his arms, and she accepted his embrace gladly. The templar stared at Hawke with stoic, detached eyes.

For his part, Justice recovered quickly. He stepped back out of Hawke's desperate grip and launched his fiery wheel overhand with a triumphant cry. The magical blade sliced easily through the wyrd's core filament, slashing it into ragged tendrils that spiraled out wildly from the point of separation.

Time seemed to slow to a standstill for an instant that lasted an eternity. Above Hawke's head where the cord had been cut, an infinitely distant point shivered in the air, drawing in the disparate threads like a vacuum. The remainder of the core flowed down out of the oculus, growing thinner and thinner until it was a mere thread. Black lightning snaked around the singularity as it held on, and on, and on; the air shook, the flagstones trembled, and then at long last, the thread snapped.

An eldritch scream ripped outwards on the tail of a violent shockwave as the singularity collapsed, shaking the very Fade. In the distance, cathedral pillars shuddered and began to crumble. The oculus spasmed, irising closed, open, closed, and open again, shrinking and growing multiple times as if seeking a new equilibrium. Stones rained from the ceiling, shoved out of place by the violence of the tremor.

All nine of the dreamers were knocked onto their backs by the wyrd's death throes, deafened by the scream and blinded by the clawing darkness sucking at their eyes. Only the circlet of spheres remained undaunted and stable during those long, interminable moments as colossal forces shifted and ancient machineries ground to a new configuration for the first time in thousands and thousands of years.

When it was over and Isabela opened her eyes, the cathedral had changed around her. The horizon had darkened from a white haze to a deepening blackness the further out she looked. Most of the light now came from the circlet and from the faint stars visible beyond the oculus. The few pillars still visible in the gloom had collapsed into mounds of rubble and mountainous chunks of stone. Peering out into the distance, Isabela caught the faintest flicker of light racing along in the fathomless darkness, briefly illuminating the empty skyline of a city.

Rubbing her eyes in weariness, Isabela glanced around. The others were recovering, shaking their heads in awe at the forces that the wyrd's undoing had released.

Out in the dark, though much closer than the horizon, a weak blue glow appeared. Eingana, who was looking in the right direction to see it appear, leapt to her feet immediately and raced out into the gloom, disappearing after she passed between two of the spheres.

Isabela heard a quiet sniff, and looked over to its source. Hawke was lying on the flagstones, naked and covered in nasty weals. His eyes were closed and he was perfectly still. Anders was leaning over him, stroking his face and crying softly. Justice had subsided.

"Michael," Anders whispered. "Wake up."

Isabela looked more closely at Hawke with a clench of fear in her gut. She watched for the rise and fall of breath in his chest, but there was none.

"Michael," Anders cried, louder this time. He placed a hand on Hawke's chest and leaned down to kiss him. Still Hawke was motionless, unresponsive.

Frigid, numbing sorrow descended like a blanket over Isabela. _After all that_, she thought bitterly. At the very least, the wyrd was gone. How strange, Isabela reflected, that it was now of all times – when its evil would never hurt anyone again – that her hatred for the creature had never been more intense.

Anders began to wail in grief. The others remained silent; there was nothing any of them could say to comfort the mage.

Footsteps muttered in the emptiness. Wearily, Isabela turned her head.

Eingana was reentering the circle of spheres, supporting a small, trembling figure that it took Isabela a few moments to recognize as Wynne. Her glow was absent but for a pale shimmer that traveled up and down her arms in a thready pulse.

"Have no fear, child," Wynne said gently as she approached. Isabela was astonished at how weak was the enchanter's voice, how ashen was her skin. She seemed to have aged twenty years in the half hour or so that had passed since they had parted. "This was always the price."

Anders looked up at her with infinite fury in his eyes. "_Always_?" he growled. "You knew this would-?"

Words failed him, and his head sank down onto Hawke's chest, shoulders heaving.

"Yes," Wynne answered. With Eingana's help, she knelt down on Hawke's other side and took one of Anders's hands in both of her own. He didn't resist, still shuddering in silent grief. "His body cannot live without his mind, and his mind... has been _stretched_. It has been – remade. It will not recover..." she paused, smiling. "At least, not without help."

"H-help?" Anders breathed, looking up at her desperately, his face streaked with tears. Hope surged in Isabela, and she clung to it desperately.

"Yes," Wynne said hoarsely. Her arms were shaking with the effort of holding herself upright; Eingana shifted herself around and gently lowered the mage into her arms.

"His mind is too twisted and diffuse now for his body to contain it – what the wyrd reshaped and expanded for itself is now empty," Wynne explained. "It can be filled again."

Anders stared at her. "Filled... you mean..."

"Yes," Wynne said. "Another spirit. A new one, benevolent, a source of comfort and strength. It can fill the emptiness within him and weave the shredded threads of him back into the man he was. It can be done, but we must act quickly."

Anders's face twisted bleakly. "Where would we find such a spirit? How could we possibly summon one in time? There are none nearby. The wyrd has blackened a vast tract of the Fade and made it a wasteland."

Wynne shook her head. "One is already here," she said. "It has been here for a long, long time, much longer than we have – longer, I suspect, than even the wyrd has." She gestured towards Hawke. "It is interested in Michael."

Anders's brow furrowed in confusion. "What...? What are you talking about? If a spirit has been here all this time, why has it not shown itself? Why can't I feel its presence?"

"It is divided," Wynne said. "Unfocused. The wyrd split the being into many disparate parts when it took its own interest in Michael. It was enough to prevent it from interfering, but it could never be driven away. It has remained all these years, watching over him mutely, unable to do anything but believe it would one day be able to make a difference."

"But what good is a divided spirit?" Anders said despairingly. "If it has been unable to do anything all these years, why should it now?"

"It can be remade, as the wyrd remade Michael," Wynne said. "But only a spirit may remake another spirit – and it cannot be done from within the mind of a mortal host."

Anders's eyes widened and his mouth opened, but no words came out. He stared at Wynne in silent terror.

"Wynne..." Eingana interjected from above the mage, her voice filled with bitter grief. "Is this it, then?"

"Yes," Wynne said, reaching up to brush some hair out of Eingana's face affectionately. "This is it. I have but minutes left to live."

A little ways beyond them, Merrill began to cry. She hauled herself unsteadily to her feet and made her way over to Wynne, Eingana, Anders, and Hawke. Isabela followed suit, as did Cullen, Varric, and Aveline. Fenris followed more hesitantly, but the Unspoken hung back and watched, deferentially silent.

"Wynne," Merrill gasped. "Are you – are you really going to die?"

"I am," Wynne answered. "But do not fear for me, child. I have lived a long, full life, and my spirit has sustained me many years past my time. It has kept me alive as long as it can, and now it is time to let go. A different journey awaits me now."

Eingana was crying as well, holding Wynne's head in her lap. She clutched one hand over her mouth, gasping through her tears.

"Do not overwhelm yourself with grief, my dear," Wynne whispered. "I am blessed to have known you... all of you."

"Falon'Din guide you, _lethallan_," Merrill said tearfully, collapsing to her knees by Eingana's side. "May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent on the winds of the Beyond."

Wynne reached up and touched her cheek, smiling kindly. "Thank you, child."

Cullen reached out and took Wynne's hand. Her thin, frail fingers looked very small in the gentle grip of his gauntlet. The templar leaned down and kissed her hand.

"Enchanter Wynne, my dear," Cullen said huskily. "I will miss you... so very much."

"And I you," Wynne replied. "You have a good heart, Cullen. Please... please do not allow it to be spoiled by others' fear."

He nodded, thoughtful and respectful, and backed away to give Aveline room to step forward. The Guard-Captain mirrored Cullen's action, taking Wynne's hand and kissing it gently.

"Thank you, Wynne," Aveline said gravely. "For everything you've done. Everything. The people of Kirkwall will forever honour your memory."

Wynne chuckled and squeezed Aveline's hand. "My dear, that won't be necessary," she said. "But you are most welcome. It has been my pleasure."

Varric cleared his throat, blinking away tears. "Uh – er, what the ladies said," he muttered. "And the templar." He indicated Cullen with a jerk of his head. "I've never known a braver lady than you, Enchanter Wynne." He snorted. "Well – Aveline, maybe. We'd never have gotten this far without you. I'm grateful."

"As am I," Fenris added grimly, from Eingana's other side. "You have done a magnificent thing this day, helping us defeat the creature. I will honour your memory myself, as I'm sure all of us will, even if the people of Kirkwall choose not to."

A cough-like grunt caught their attention, and everyone turned towards the source: the Unspoken, standing in the shadows just beyond their gathering. The hurlock stepped forward with an awkwardness that might have been amusing if it were not for the circumstances. To Isabela's surprise, the Unspoken proceeded to execute a graceful bow in Wynne's direction.

Wynne laughed. "Oh... I am lucky indeed to have met such a group of wonderful, fascinating souls before I die," she said. "You are all most welcome – and thank you, all of you, for everything you have given me in return. You may say that is not much, but I would not have traded this experience for anything. It was a fine, worthy goal we have accomplished – and a worthier one we shall yet."

Wynne's arms were trembling with weakness, and the glow of her spirit was pulsing more erratically. Her breath grew ever shallower. Eingana was still crying, hugging her friend gently. Anders reached across Hawke's unmoving body and took one of the enchanter's hands.

"Wynne," he murmured. "I will never forget you. Thank you, for Michael as well as myself."

"Yes," Wynne gasped, squeezing his hand as best she could and clutching at her chest with her other. "Remember – remember me to him. We must hurry, my dear, hurry – I have but moments left."

Realizing she hadn't said anything, Isabela stepped forward in a panic, stretching out her arm. "Wynne," she blurted out. "I – I-"

"Shhh," Wynne said soothingly, reaching up to touch Isabela's hand. "I understand. Goodbye, my dear."

Isabela nodded gratefully, a tear slipping down her cheek. Eingana let out a choking sob and hiccupped.

"Do not fear," Wynne murmured, her eyelids seemingly growing heavy. "All will be well... do not fear, my children. I am so tired... so tired. I think I would like... a rest."

She released one final breath, and then, peacefully, Wynne closed her eyes.

A moment later the spirit left her body on radiant wings, unfolding its graceful, ethereal body in shimmering brilliance. The sight moved Isabela to further tears with its heart-wrenching beauty. Slowly, lovingly, the spirit of Faith gathered Wynne's body into its arms and lifted her into the air. It rose up a few meters, and then glided out and away, arcing around to travel in a slow, serene circle.

The spheres still waited, hovering in their patient, eternal circlet.

The spirit glided around the ring, passing all the spheres in turn and pausing briefly at each. Isabela was reminded of a hummingbird, sipping nectar from flowers. Each time Faith visited a sphere, its pearly glow brightened; and when she moved on, she left behind her a glowing, gauzy ribbon of light that hung in graceful arcs around the ring.

Finally, the spirit had touched every sphere, connecting all in a single loop and uniting them at last into a true circlet. It returned to hover for a brief moment above the dreamers, watching in contemplative silence. For a moment, an image flashed in Isabela's mind of a young woman with golden hair and bright blue eyes, standing in a verdant meadow and smiling as she greeted an approaching dawn.

Then it was gone, and Wynne and her spirit rose into the heights. They traversed the oculus, ascending into a cobalt sky clustered with bright, twinkling stars. Wynne and Faith dwindled until they were but one bright star among many; and then they were gone.

Isabela looked down, wiping tears from her eyes and releasing a pent up sob. She started when she looked around and saw that the circlet of spheres had closed in around them while they were watching Wynne's departure. The spheres were less than a meter away, and huge; but they seemed immaterial, as the Unspoken was standing right in one, and both he and it appeared unbothered.

As the dreamers watched, the circlet continued to shrink until at last the spheres slid neatly into one another, coalescing into a light that burst with such brilliance that it lit the dark cathedral all around. Isabela threw up an arm to protect her eyes, but there was no defense against the flood of magic radiating outwards from this spot. A new entity was being born, pieced together from fragments of another long sundered: a new spirit of Faith, a renewal.

When the light faded, Isabela opened her eyes eagerly, looking at Hawke. Anders was staring down at his lover, tense and all but shaking with worry. A long, empty moment passed in which no one spoke, no one even breathed.

Then Hawke awakened. His eyes shone with sapphire light.

"Michael," Anders breathed, utterly undone with relief and euphoria. Isabela laughed aloud, and so did Aveline, Varric, Merrill, and Eingana.

Hawke blinked once. Weakly, he lifted a hand. Isabela's exultant laugh cut off abruptly when she saw the razor-sharp claws lancing from his fingertips. What-? Had something gone wrong?

Icy fear shot through her. Surely not. Surely it just... a remnant. It had to be over. It _had_ to be...

"Anders." Hawke's hand fell back down. His voice sounded normal, soft, though it echoed profoundly out into the emptiness. Isabela could have cried with relief, but she was nearly numb from emotional and physical exhaustion.

Hawke was confused; he didn't seem able to see around the glow in his eyes. "What...?"

"Michael," Anders confirmed, his voice choked with joy. "It's me. I'm here."

He leaned down and kissed Hawke's lips. Hawke kissed him back unhesitatingly.

"It's over," Anders said."It's _finally over_!" He broke down into tears again.

"Over..." Hawke's brow furrowed. "Really? It's really... over?"

"Really," Anders said, simultaneously crying and laughing. "Come – come with me."

Hawke closed his eyes. "Oh... good. Good. Where are we going?"

"Home," Anders cried, resting his head against Hawke's chest. "We're going home, Michael. Just take my hand."

Hawke lifted his hand again and found Anders's. His claws slipped into the mage's grasp, and their fingers intertwined.

"I trust you," Hawke murmured.

Justice crackled silently beneath Anders's skin. He straightened and clenched his free hand into a fist. A sphere of gentle light expanded from their linked hands; the world dissolved, and as one the ten dreamers rose into the sky.

**Ω**


	29. Dawn

**α**

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Dawn"**

The sun rose quietly over Kirkwall. The morning was dewy and unseasonably cool, the sky empty of clouds. Across the city suffused in the watery light of dawn, the still air shivered with the Chantry's bells, issuing the call to matins.

One day had passed since the ritual was cast in the cellars of the Hawke estate. In that time, while the Champion's companions had been fighting in the Fade, the Templar Order had triumphed over the blood mage collective in Hightown and apprehended dozens of apostates in Lowtown and the Undercity. In the process, however, their numbers had been more than halved by casualties, demonic possession, and desertion. Many renegades, including Knight-Lieutenant Thrask, remained aligned with the City Guard and continued to demand Meredith's resignation.

The people of Lowtown were now enjoying an uncertain calmness, as the sheer number of lives being lost had become starkly apparent to the various factions and gangs. Ceasefires were under negotiation, and old truces and alliances were dragged back from the brink of dissolution. Even so, nobody had weathered the crisis unscathed. The borders of many different territories had shifted significantly in the last few days. A few ambitious factions that had been relatively minor players prior to the invasion had managed to carve out considerable slices of Carta or Coterie territory – sometimes both – and were now far from the ignorable threats they had once been. Coupled with the severe reduction in templar numbers, the balance of power in Lowtown had been dramatically skewed.

From the alienage, a few elves began to tentatively venture out in search of news. Opening the enchanted gates provoked reprisals from neither demons nor templars; when all the scouts returned unharmed with news that the invasion was apparently over, the apostates protecting their homes allowed their barriers to fall at last. Slowly, over the course of the day, elves trickled out into the city, searching for signs of missing loved ones and inquiring about when or if they should return to work.

Peace, it seemed, had returned to Kirkwall, but it remained a shaky peace. Tensions still simmered in Lowtown and Hightown both, particularly between the templars and the city guard. At the Viscount's Keep, Donnic, Brennan, and their comrades had received no word from the Hawke estate for some time, nor had Meredith at the Gallows. That, however, would soon change.

**ασυνέχεια**

It was only after Hawke had been awake for some time that he realized it and opened his eyes. In fact, he was hovering upright. How long had he been drifting here? It felt like quite a while.

He was surrounded on all sides by a dazzling tide of magic, flowing ceaselessly upwards. It coursed and rippled around his skin like the clear waters of a stream over its bed of pebbles. The magic never touched him, but Hawke could feel the tingle of its power. After the unbearable intensity of the pain he'd been in for so long, the gentle, cool character of this magic was a blessed relief – almost pleasurable. Something inside him was responding to the unending river of power, something that provided a warm, solid counterpoint. It made him feel refreshed and confident that he was safe, and that his mind was fully his own at long last.

Even so, Hawke wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. He was free of the wyrd's overt influence for the first time in half a year and free of it entirely for the first time in much longer than that. He was far from ready to face his thoughts. If Hawke was honest with himself, which he tried to be, he was afraid of whom he might have become without realizing it during that period of interminable helplessness.

Then a gentle voice nearby spoke. "Love?"

Hawke turned instinctively. He didn't really know how it happened – he was hovering in the stream, detached from the stone basin beneath him. He simply willed himself to turn and he did. Anders hovered a few meters away, looking at him.

A tide of emotion welled up within Hawke so powerfully that for a moment he was unable to speak. He felt so many things at once – regret, gratitude, terror, love – that it made his thoughts scrambled and incoherent.

Anders had saved him. Anders and Justice, and all the others – they had risked so much for him, gone into the Fade itself after him. And Wynne had gone farther than that. She had sacrificed herself, for him. For Hawke.

He remembered everything.

There were tears in his eyes, but Hawke blinked them away. He reached out to his lover and said hoarsely, "Anders."

Hawke could see the claws on his fingers, but his mind shoved the fact away from the surface of his consciousness, into another place – a safer place – where he could deal with it later. There was far too much in his mind at the moment for more.

Anders had been watching him uncertainly, clearly worried about his mental state. When Hawke said his name, however, Anders's face twisted with emotion and he rushed forward. Hawke, urged on by his will, met him halfway, and they embraced.

"Michael," Anders said, voice muffled against the skin of his shoulder. Hawke felt the wetness of a tear drip onto his back. "I love you. I love you so much."

"I love you," Hawke murmured back, squeezing the mage hard. "Anders... I-"

"Don't talk," Anders whispered. "Not yet. Plenty of time to talk later. Right now... just hold me, love. Please. Don't let go."

That was fine with Hawke. He held Anders to him tightly, breathing in his scent, crying softly. His regret melted away in the face of his relief; his fear dissolved. Anders loved him. All the unspeakable things Hawke had done to his lover were in the past. The wyrd was gone and their ordeal was over. It was finally, truly over.

The reality of the situation hadn't quite sunk in for Hawke until that moment. He could scarcely believe that he'd come through it intact, and that Anders had as well. Everyone had, all their friends – everyone except Wynne, and Hawke had never even had the chance to properly meet her. He felt the shadow of a vast, crushing boulder of sorrow passing over him, but his mind instinctively danced away from it. It was yet another well of intense emotion that Hawke simply wasn't capable of dealing with just yet. There was so much else he needed to process first.

What he needed most of all, Hawke thought, was time. That, and the touch of Anders's skin against his own, the mage's cool, solid presence at his side. With those two things, Hawke knew he would survive.

Hawke drew back from Anders far enough to be able to see his face. He stared into Anders's eyes, struck by the beauty of their polished amber hue. He brushed some loose hair out of Anders's face – catching himself just in time and using the tip of one claw, carefully avoiding cutting his lover's skin – and leaned in to kiss him.

Their lips met. Anders's hands slid down Hawke's arms, squeezing his biceps as Hawke gripped the mage by his shoulders. Their kiss was gentle, exploratory, a renewal of genuine affection and care for one another – untainted by other forces. Hawke allowed his eyes to drift closed with the simple pleasure of kissing the man he loved, but though he appeared outwardly calm, his heart was pounding. It was just as if he was discovering the joy of touching Anders's lips and tongue with his own for the very first time. And in a way he was: the wyrd had been within him since before the Deep Roads expedition on which Hawke's relationship with Anders had begun in earnest.

Hawke moved his right hand up to caress the back of Anders's head, but he had to continually check himself to avoid wounding his lover with his claws. It felt awkward and disappointing, being unable to flex his fingers to their full range of motion without causing injury.

He sighed and ended the kiss, brow furrowing unhappily as he leaned his forehead against Anders's. Anders looked at him, concerned.

"Love? What is it?"

Hawke drew back and raised his hands between them, turning them around to examine the razor-sharp spikes sprouting where human fingernails should have been. He gave a half-hearted, wordless shrug, the source of his vexation obvious.

"Oh, Michael..." Anders took one of Hawke's hands in his own. His hand felt cold against Hawke's wrist as he supported it and examined the claws with the fingers of his other hand. The claws were a dark, mottled brown, lined with grooves, slender but inflexible and hard as diamond. Each was nearly half as long as the finger it was attached to.

"How did this happen?" Hawke muttered, depressed. "I thought the – the – I thought _it_ was gone. This isn't normal. Shouldn't they be gone, too?"

"I don't know," Anders said, turning Hawke's hand over in his to look at the claws from the other side. He followed Hawke's lead in avoiding the word _wyrd_.

"It held you in its grip for a long time, and all things are mutable in the Fade," Anders said contemplatively. "Projected minds are usually less so, because their conscious awareness of themselves – control, in other words – makes any alteration by external forces all but impossible. But in your case..."

He trailed a curious fingertip down the underside of one claw. Hawke inhaled sharply.

"I – I can feel that," he breathed. Anders looked up at him, startled.

"You can?"

Hawke nodded, frowning. He stared down at his hands, spread in front of him. Slowly, his lip curled in disgust.

"Michael-"

Hawke backed away, shaking his head. Memories were flashing through his mind – memories of being hunched over Anders, or Justice in Anders's body, fucking him brutally, gnawing bestially on the mage's shoulder and slicing down his flank with his claws. There had been nothing in his head but vicious, delirious pleasure; and there was Justice shuddering and moaning beneath him, begging him for more.

Anders reached out for him, but Hawke recoiled, his hands trembling. An iron band of horror and self-loathing had clenched around his chest. His shoulders heaved and he gasped for breath, choking on despair.

Other memories surfaced, things he hadn't thought about for days and months. He remembered tormenting Isabela in the Fade, promising to kill her "last." He remembered stalking Merrill in the cellars beneath his estate, threatening to tear out her heart and show it to her. He remembered raping and mutilating Anders in the cavern beneath Kirkwall, after Justice had killed the young mage girl.

Hawke might have blamed the wyrd, but it had never forced him to behave in such ways. It had merely encouraged his own latent, sadistic insanity to the surface. Really, even before the wyrd, Hawke had always been more beast than man. He was savage and wild. These claws on his fingers at least now reflected more accurately the crazed animal that lurked inside him, waiting to be unleashed.

Then Hawke thought, _I am not an animal._

_I am a man – and I must not lose faith in myself._

They were his own thoughts, and at the same time they were the thoughts of another, infinitely strange. For a moment Hawke was bewildered and alarmed; then the knowledge bloomed in his mind, perhaps once again from that other, of just what it was that had been done to him in order to save his mind from the wyrd.

He was still possessed. He was _still_ sharing his body with some enigmatic being from the other world. The idea nearly sent Hawke over the edge of blind panic.

Cool hands gripped his shoulders and turned him around.

"Michael!" Anders said, alarmed. "_What_? What's the matter?"

Hawke kept staring at his hands. He couldn't bear to look Anders in the eye. _How_ could the man possibly still want anything to do with him, after everything he'd done?

"Please, love," Anders begged. "You're scaring me! Tell me what's wrong."

"I... I'm a..."

Hawke's voice broke. Speaking the words would only make them finally, inescapably real. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force away his tears. He took deep, shuddering breaths, willing himself not to break down.

Gently, Anders took his hands.

"Michael," he said quietly. "Look at me."

Hawke swallowed. He blinked a few times, took a breath, and then forced himself to look up. Anders was gazing at him, and his eyes were filled not with fear or hatred, but concern. He leaned forward and placed a soft, soothing kiss on Hawke's lips.

Hawke was too paralyzed with grief to respond, but Anders didn't seem to mind. He slid one hand up Hawke's back and curled the other around his head. A tear slipped from beneath the warrior's right eyelid and trailed onto Anders's cheek. After a moment, Anders drew back.

"I love _you_, Michael," he murmured. "I love – _everything_ about you."

He kissed Hawke again, and this time Hawke kissed back, feeling some of the heaviness in his chest lightening. A bloom of warmth radiated through him, blunting the bitter edge of his pain.

Around them, the perpetual upward stream of power began to pulse visibly, alternately brightening and darkening. Hawke could feel a distant throbbing vibration welling up from the soles of his bare feet, synchronized with the pulsation.

"I love the man you are... otherworldly passengers and unique physical attributes included," Anders said when they broke apart again. He took Hawke's left hand and raised it to his mouth. Staring into his eyes, Anders kissed the base of the claw on Hawke's index finger, and then slowly ran his tongue up its smooth upper surface.

Hawke's breath caught in his throat. Wide-eyed, he stared at Anders, barely aware of the escalating flickers of the surrounding magical field. The sensation of the mage's tongue on his claw was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He couldn't even recall having felt anything when he had been under the wyrd's control and assaulting Justice in the Fade, using his claws to slice skin.

Anders reached the tip of Hawke's claw and flicked it with his tongue, being careful not to cut himself. The sensation was so novel and inexplicably arousing that Hawke immediately wanted more of it.

"Do that... again," Hawke said huskily, still staring at him. Anders obliged him, shifting to the slightly longer claw on Hawke's middle finger and curling his tongue around to caress the underside. Eyes drifting half-closed, Hawke's lips parted and he made a soft noise almost like a purr. Anders smiled at him.

The stream of magic began to thin and disperse very suddenly. Anders and Hawke looked around, surprised, as the torrent of power withered from a single unbroken channel into discrete beams and then hundreds of needle-thin trickles. Within the span of a few seconds, the flow had ceased entirely, and both men fell half a meter from the air into the stone basin. Anders stumbled, caught off guard, but Hawke gripped his elbows and kept him upright.

They were in the nexus chamber beneath Kirkwall, surrounded by darkness. A single orb, vast and distant, shone a pale blue light that barley reached through the emptiness to the basin. The complex fractal traceries of lyrium embedded in the ceiling were still aglow with the remnants of the power that had flowed through the channel, but they were fading rapidly as the magic diffused out into the network.

Hawke looked around warily. Who had cut off the magic? He could see nothing beyond the lip of the basin several meters away except for the distant crystal globe, hovering in the blackness like a full moon. Its light seemed to pronounce the preternatural chill that suffused the air above the basin.

Before the wyrd had pulled him into the Fade, Hawke had been in complete control of himself – or so he had believed – right until the very last second, as Justice had been on the verge of undamming the discharge loop he had set up. That was when the wyrd had seized control of Hawke and yanked Justice into the basin, catching mage and spirit in the channel alongside him. It felt like a long, long time ago.

Anders gripped Hawke's wrist, eyeing the encompassing darkness.

"Michael," he hissed. "There are – darkspawn out there."

"What?" Hawke said in surprise. "Here? How is that possible?"

"I don't know, but I can feel them," Anders said tightly. "Three of them. And they're all emissaries... extraordinarily powerful ones. One in particular, I've only ever felt its like once before... it feels almost..."

His brow furrowed thoughtfully. Hawke glanced down and flexed his fingers.

"My sword is still out there on the bench, isn't it?" he muttered.

"Yes," Anders said. "So is my staff."

Hawke narrowed his eyes. "Stay behind me," he said, and he began to prowl out towards the edge of the basin.

"Michael, wait," Anders whispered, reaching out to try and catch Hawke's wrist again, but the warrior was already out of his reach. He hastened to catch up, trying to keep his boots from scraping too loudly against the fetid crust of lichen and centuries-old dried blood that caked the basin's interior. Hawke's bare feet, already black with mould and rot, made no sound at all against the corrupted stone.

He reached the edge and peered out into the gloom, scanning for signs of movement. All he had for light was the weak crystal globe, and he could barely even make out the circle of pillars that surrounded the basin. Anders made a slight noise behind him, and Hawke held out a hand for silence. He tilted his head, listening intently.

There was – _something_, a being of some sort – lurking behind the nearest pillar. Hawke _knew_ exactly where it was with unwavering certainty, though he couldn't say how exactly he knew.

Anders's staff was still lay in the dust where Justice had dropped it, three nights previously. Silently, it floated into the air, drifted over the lip of the basin and into Anders's outstretched hand. Hawke glanced at him, and Anders nodded, gripping his staff in one hand and ready to launch a spell.

Hawke crouched down and spread his claws, preparing to leap from the edge of the basin.

"If you do not show yourself, _now_," he said, loudly and clearly, "when I find you, I will peel off your skin. In _strips_."

A low chuckle arose. A tall, dark-skinned man stepped out from behind the pillar, spreading his hands in a gesture of apparent surrender. He watched Hawke with bright golden eyes and a subtly mocking smirk.

"Now, now," the stranger said smoothly. "There is no need for threats of that sort... none you are not prepared to follow through with."

Hawke bared his teeth and tensed, preparing to spring.

"I wouldn't doubt him, if I were you," Anders said coolly behind Hawke.

The stranger licked his lips. "Oh, I don't. I don't." He didn't seem at all put off by the threatening glower Hawke was giving him.

"Who are you?" Anders said.

The man's eyes never left Hawke as he inclined his head sardonically. "Cageus Valerius Nero. Call me Gage. Pleased to meet you."

He reached out casually with his left hand to touch the pillar next to him.

"He's a mage, love," Anders said at once, stepping forward and dropping a calming hand onto Hawke's shoulder. "Be careful. I think... he's the one who opened the vault."

Hawke's eyes narrowed. His gaze shifted as he caught a faint motion with his peripheral vision. Something was moving around, out in the shadows beyond Gage.

"Indeed I am," Gage confirmed. The ancient, filthy globe atop the pillar he had touched began to emit a soft radiance that did very little to chase away the darkness, and he drew his hand away. Behind him, vague figures rustled around and retreated from the light. "One of those, at least. It was not a simple thing to do – far from it. Fortunately, my associates and I have certain... _means_ available to us." He flashed them a sinister smile.

"And what do you want?" Hawke demanded, glaring at him directly once more. Gage eyed the warrior almost hungrily, his gaze trailing down Hawke's arms, his bare chest, and the blades on the ends of his fingers.

"I? I _want_ a great many things," Gage answered. He sighed melodramatically, looking back up into Hawke's eyes. "But... I suppose it would be in poor taste to interpret your ignorance and ostentatious snarling too literally. I shall instead address the underlying question, which – correct me if I'm wrong – is to do with why I am here and why the vault has been opened."

"Yes," Hawke bit out.

"A mutual friend sent me," Gage said airily. "Eingana Tabris."

Hawke's eyebrows rose. He glanced at Anders out of the corner of his eye, carefully keeping Gage well within his peripheral vision.

"You're a Grey Warden," Anders realized.

"Yes!" Gage seemed pleased that one of them had finally arrived at this fact. "I am a Grey Warden. So are you."

He winked conspiratorially. Anders's faced darkened, but he said nothing.

"The Commander brought me here to help conduct the ritual which sent your friends into the Fade," Gage went on. "I imagine they are all awake by now... sunrise has come and gone."

Hawke relaxed, but only very slightly. "Then you helped us."

Gage affected disappointed surprise. "So I did! How silly of me. Next time I come across two such handsome, strapping lads passionately embracing whilst caught in temporal stasis-" he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively "I shall endeavour to leave them to their own devices until such time as the entertainment value in doing so is no longer worthwhile."

Hawke leapt from the edge of the basin, landing right in front of Gage with a _thump_ that shook the nearby pillars ever so slightly. He gave the mage a nasty glower. Gage stared right back, utterly unintimidated, the sneer creeping over his lips doing nothing to disguise the desire in his eyes.

Hawke made a snide face at him and turned to reach a hand up to Anders, intending to help him down from the basin. He froze, realizing he was all but brandishing five bladed spikes in his lover's direction.

Anders leaned down to take Hawke's hand without hesitation, arranging his fingers and palm to avoid cutting himself, and jumped down from the basin. He smiled reassuringly.

_He's not afraid of me,_ welled up in Hawke's thoughts. _I can trust him._ The source of those blooming ideas, buried deep in his subconscious, still felt uncomfortably strange. It was less jarring this time, at least.

_I can trust him not to be afraid of me._

Hawke was very much looking forward to renewing his relationship with Anders and getting to know the mage on his own terms, untainted by the wyrd. With that thought, he felt some of the chill of a long darkness in his heart at last begin to thaw.

Tentatively, Hawke returned a small smile, and Anders's face lit up. The sight made Hawke's heart skip a beat.

"Michael," Anders murmured, reaching out to grip Hawke by his shoulders. "You're so handsome when you smile like that." He ran affectionate fingers through Hawke's beard. "You should do it more often."

Hawke grunted and leaned in for a brief but intense kiss, thrusting his tongue into Anders's mouth to taste him. "I'll make an effort... for you," he said softly, nosing around Anders's cheek.

Anders trailed the back of his hand down Hawke's chest. Remembering they weren't alone, he shot a look at Gage. The mage was leaning against the pillar with his arms folded, eyeing them with amusement.

"Oh – don't stop on my account," he said sensually. "By all means... continue as you were." He ran his tongue across his teeth and shifted his piercing yellow gaze over to Hawke. The warrior gave him an irate glance as he drew back from Anders.

"You're going to fuck him hard against the wall later, aren't you?" Gage purred. "Oh, I can just _imagine_ it..." His eyes drifted closed.

"Enough," Anders snapped, seeing Hawke's eyes flashing dangerously. "Take us to Eingana, please."

"Oh, come on," Gage said, slinking towards him. "What's the rush? Both of you have just been through a major ordeal... there are no other immediate bids for your attention, surely? For some time now the problem of the wyrd has demanded everything you have. Let _go_ for a while, it will do you good!"

"I am very rapidly growing tired of you," Hawke growled.

"Oh?" Gage seemed intrigued by the idea. "Enough to want to do something about the annoyance I present, perhaps?"

"_Don't_ test me," Hawke said threateningly.

Gage's eyes traveled down Hawke's body. "But why not? What might I do, I wonder, to encourage you to act on those raw, primal urges? Nothing is ever gained by keeping oneself in check, you know."

He turned a feral look on Anders. "Tell me, my good man, have you ever been intimate with another mage? One can do _wonderful_ things, but trust me when I say that two are even better. And I... I know blood magic." Gage placed his hands against Anders's chest and leaned in close, trailing his lips along the mage's jaw.

Anders was already reaching up to shove Gage away from him, but he had barely begun the motion before Hawke lunged forward and delivered a powerful backhanded blow to Gage's face. He was knocked over by the uncompromising force, reeling onto his back with a grunt of pain. Hawke sneered down at him, flexing his claws as if eager to drive them into Gage's flesh.

Cradling his bruised and bloodied jaw, Gage threw a look in Hawke's direction that was not one of anger or fear, but naked lust. "Now didn't that release of pent up anger feel _good_, big guy?" he soothed, unconvincingly. "You needn't have worried – I said nothing about excluding _you_, did I?"

A trail of blood dripped down from his nose, and a pink tongue flashed out to lick it up.

"I will having nothing of the sort to do with you, cretin," Hawke snarled. "And neither will Anders. He's _mine_."

Gage raised one eyebrow and glanced at Anders. The mage stared back at him coldly, arms folded.

"Yours," Gage repeated dryly.

"And I'm his," Hawke added. The corners of Anders's mouth quirked upwards.

Gage rose gracefully to his feet, still rubbing his injured jaw. "Come now, dear Champion. I make no claim to either one of you. I merely offer myself as a participant in the incomparable release of stress you must be so eager to get to. Your man and I are both Grey Wardens... I'm sure you realize that the stamina afforded us by the darkspawn taint far exceeds that of normal men, even such well-built and undoubtedly _virile_ men as you."

He lowered his voice to a sultry whisper. "Together, he and I could show you a world of pleasure the likes of which you've _never_-"

Hawke had slammed him against the pillar with a hand around his throat before he could say another word. Gage froze, staring at the razor-sharp claws hovering, motionless, a bare centimeter from his eyeballs. Hawke's face was utterly composed but for his eyes, which danced with malice.

There passed a long moment of tense silence.

"He said no," Anders spoke up mildly from a few meters away. "Now I'm not sure how I can make this any plainer than that, but since you seem to be of a particularly thickheaded sort, I'll do my best. Michael and I want nothing to do with you. At all. You will not touch either one of us again, or speak a word unrelated to the task at hand unless you are spoken to first. If you so much as _look_ at one of us in a manner outside the proper standards of common decorum... well, I'm exhausted and I'm sure Michael is too, but I certainly wouldn't pass up an opportunity to see him break in those claws. I imagine _he_ would relish it even more... you may even get your wish and see him essentially 'unleashed.' If you survive the first cut, anyway."

Hawke twitched his claws a few millimeters closer to Gage's eyes. Beads of sweat had broken out over the Warden mage's forehead, but he remained perfectly still, not even blinking.

Anders rubbed one of his fingernails idly. "You may also find it useful to know that both of us host powerful spirits, neither of whom will take kindly to any attempt at influencing one or the other of us with blood magic. Trying to do so is thus inadvisable. Now, have I made myself understood?"

Gage didn't answer.

"That counts as being spoken to, cretin," Hawke whispered, tightening his grip on Gage's neck ever so slightly.

"_Yes_," Gage spat.

Anders tapped his staff on the ground. "Good. Shall we go, then? I would like to see how Eingana and the others fare, and we have the body of a friend to attend to."

Gage shot him a curious look, but said nothing. He let out a barely-perceptible breath as Hawke backed off and released his neck, and he straightened his robes with an irritated sniff.

"Follow me, then, and I will take you to the Commander," Gage said shortly, and he stalked off into the gloom. The crystal globe he'd lit faded rapidly, so Anders summoned a glow into his staff with a gesture as Hawke retrieved his gauntlets and greatsword from the nearby bench. The gauntlets were essentially useless to him at the moment, since they wouldn't fit around his claws, so Hawke hung them from the belt of his trousers by small hooks designed for just that purpose. He hefted his greatsword onto his shoulder, taking care to avoid slicing his skin open on the blade.

The crystal atop Anders's staff glowed with a cold azure radiance, throwing back the shadows for some distance. Hawke scanned the periphery of the wide pool of light, sharp eyes catching hints of movement here and there. He turned to Anders, who was watching him with a slight smile.

"After you," Anders said, gesturing for Hawke to go first.

Before he did, Hawke reached out and grabbed Anders by the back of his head, pulling him into a deep, lingering kiss. When their lips parted after a few electric moments, Hawke leaned forward to nip at Anders's ear.

"You have never been sexier to me than you are right now," he growled quietly. "You still want me to 'break in' these claws?"

He caught himself. "I mean – _ngh_." He grunted, annoyed with himself. "I'm not going to-"

Anders silenced Hawke with a finger against his lips. "Shhh," he murmured. "I understand. Later."

Hawke gave him a lusty smirk and turned to catch up with Gage. Anders took a moment to compose himself before following. Gage was waiting for them impatiently out beyond the light of Anders's staff; when he saw them approaching, he turned and began to make his way up the long, gradual slope towards the periphery of the chamber.

Hawke kept an eye on the darkness around them, convinced that they were being watched. There was an odd scent that seemed to be lurking around, just a thread below the level of recognition – something unlike anything Hawke had ever sensed before, but which seemed maddeningly familiar. And he was _sure_ that he could hear things, soft shuffling footsteps and even a grunting breath every now and then – but they were so faint and fleeting that he was hardly aware of them at all. It was as if there were phantom sensations ricocheting around inside his skull, clamoring for his attention but unable to make themselves heard over each other.

Neither Gage nor Anders appeared to be able to sense what Hawke was sensing. But they were both Grey Wardens – perhaps they could and were just used to it. But Hawke hadn't contracted the darkspawn taint, as far as he was aware. What was happening to him?

"Anders," Hawke muttered, slowing down a bit so the mage caught up with him in a few steps. "How many darkspawn did you say were out there?"

"Three," Anders replied. "Why?"

Hawke frowned, peering into the darkness. "I can... _sense_ them."

Anders looked surprised. Before he could say anything, Gage spoke. His hearing was clearly better than Hawke had anticipated.

"They're Disciples," he called out from ahead of them, not bothering to turn around. "They came here with the Architect. They are not a threat to you."

Anders snapped his fingers. "That's it! I _knew_ that one felt familiar. I've encountered him before, with Eingana. But..." He frowned suspiciously. "Why are they here? _Here,_ of all places, skulking around the nexus of Kirkwall's ancient ley network?"

"They came to help free the Champion," Gage said shortly, glancing over his shoulder at the mage. "They were instrumental in conducting the ritual that sent your friends into the Fade, and in opening the vault. Both of you owe them your lives and much more than that."

Hawke raised his eyebrows. "I'd be happy to thank them if they would show themselves."

Gage didn't respond. He seemed offended that Hawke and Anders had brushed off his advances. Hawke could hardly have cared less, and was glad the snarky Warden had chosen to lead them in silence.

They left the nexus a minute later, entering the cramped, dusty corridor that connected eventually to Darktown and the cellars beneath the estate. Hawke thought he could detect the darkspawn Disciples leaving the hub chamber some time after them, but it didn't feel like they were following. As they walked on, Hawke heard and smelled them less and less, until finally they were gone from his awareness. That was fine with him.

Hawke looked at Anders, wondering if the mage might have yet produced an explanation for why the keenness of his senses had apparently been heightened so dramatically. He wanted to ask, but he could wait until Gage was out of earshot.

Anders noticed his casual scrutiny and smiled at him. Hawke, remembering that Anders was fond of his smile, mustered one in return. Anders's eyes danced with joy, and he leaned in for a short kiss. Hawke took the opportunity to inhale deeply of his lover's scent and wrap his right arm around Anders's waist.

Hawke was amazed at the damage the corridor had taken during the battle the others had waged luring him to the nexus. Several long tracts of wall were burned black and splattered liberally with crusted ethereal scoria. There were mounds of rage demon char everywhere, and innumerable bodies – some of which had clearly been killed and reanimated multiple times. Many were decayed to mere scraps of ancient tendon clinging to mouldy bones. Others were clad in rusted, filthy shells that must have once been magnificent suits of armour. A few had even been reduced to heaps of twisted scrap by the indiscriminate heat of rage demons' fires. Such old, decrepit equipment was of the kind worn by the lumbering undead monstrosities Anders called _revenants._

Hawke eyed these remnants of battle with mixed curiosity and unease. He had dim memories of the long slag of combat that had dragged on through the day and well into the night; most of his recollections were lost in the fog of despair that had consumed him at the time. Aside from his brief resurgence in the tunnels just outside the nexus, the last time Hawke had felt any semblance of control over himself was as he had fallen asleep next to Anders, after their bout of vigorous sex in the bathtub.

The memory sent a tingle down his spine. That was the last time they had been together and he had really been _him_, not the monster the wyrd had twisted him into. Hawke gave Anders a squeeze, remembering almost subconsciously to avoid wounding with his claws. The idea that they were now free to repeat the experience – wherever they wanted, as often as they liked – was still dawning on him by gradual degrees.

They had been walking for perhaps ten minutes when a tremor shook the passageway. Dust drifted down from the ceiling, and a low, powerful rumble rolled past them from behind. Hawke caught a brief glimpse of a few streaks of light racing along the walls, tracing out complex patterns of lines that divided and merged over and over again. In the blink of an eye, they were gone, and the patterns lost.

Hawke stopped, startled, and so did Anders.

"What was that?" Anders said, looking over his shoulder. The tremor subsided; the darkness was empty and still behind them.

Up ahead, Gage paused and turned around. He shot a hostile look back the way they had come. "It was the Architect, no doubt, sealing the nexus," he said. His golden eyes were narrowed in annoyance.

Hawke stared at him pointedly. "Not your idea, huh?"

Gage sneered. He seemed about to bite off a response, but a series of loud, riotous barks from further down the tunnel cut him off. Gage turned around in surprise as Hawke stepped forward eagerly, searching.

Moments later, a Mabari hound bounded out of the gloom, barking joyfully. Gage stepped hastily aside, cursing as the dog nearly knocked him off his feet.

"Reaver!" Hawke exclaimed, going down on one knee and spreading his arms. Reaver ran right into him and bowled him over, throwing him onto his back. Hawke laughed and wrapped his arms around Reaver as the dog proceeded to slather his face with wet kisses.

"Reaver," Hawke murmured again, happily. "I missed you. I'm so glad you're okay."

Reaver woofed his assurance. He braced his paws against Hawke's chest and stared down at him. He sniffed suspiciously, bared his teeth and growled for a moment, and then made a plaintive whining noise.

"No," Hawke said. "It's gone. It's gone." He closed his eyes against the sting of tears and hugged Reaver tightly.

"It's gone," he whispered again, and Reaver barked his enthusiastic approval.

"Are you quite finished?" Gage said snidely, not bothering to hide his disgust at the display of affection. A moment later he leapt backwards, staring wide-eyed at the blade affixed to Anders's staff, embedded in the mouldy wood of the wall where his head had been a moment earlier.

"What did I say about speaking unless spoken to?" Anders said calmly.

Gage glared at him, and Anders glared right back. Azure power crackled just beneath his skin, flickering into his eyes. Gage balled his hands into fists and narrowed his eyes.

Lightning danced along Anders's staff to the blade, arcing by centimeters in Gage's direction almost hungrily. Finally, Gage backed down, making a face and turning away to wait in sullen silence.

Hawke climbed to his feet, picking up his sword from where he'd dropped it. Anders yanked his staff from the wall and gestured for the warrior to go ahead of him. Hawke eyed him with a faint smirk crossing his lips. Anders snapping at Gage had reminded him of several reasons he had fallen in love with the mage in the first place. He hadn't seen his lover so assertive for a long time. After the wyrd had begun actively influencing him and beating Anders and Justice into submission, he had seemed to lose much of his fire. Hawke had always felt most comfortable in the dominant role of their relationship, but seeing Anders act so aggressively towards another – particularly the slimy, seductive blood mage – was almost unbearably arousing. He felt a powerful urge to pin Anders to the wall and kiss him senseless.

Anders gave him a bashful wink, which only turned Hawke on more, but this really wasn't the time or place. Reaver was dancing around his feet, eager to be off, and Hawke reached down to rub him affectionately on the head. He promised himself that later he would show Anders how much he loved and appreciated him the best way he could.

The remainder of their journey up through the cellars of the Undercity passed in relatively uneventful silence. Hawke kept a careful watch on the darkness around them, thinking that the raw material for the hordes of zombies the wyrd had summoned had to have come from somewhere. Several times he picked up faint shuffling footsteps and breathless groans, but always so far off that neither Gage nor Anders seemed able to hear them. Whatever was left of the hordes of spirits the wyrd had summoned seemed to be laying low.

Once or twice, Hawke caught faded impressions of complex sigils etched into the walls out of the corner of his eye. The intricate designs of intersecting circles and lines seemed to glimmer unnaturally in the light of Anders's staff. When he looked closer, however, the sigils seemed to vanish completely.

Hawke was curious, but this was something else he was disinclined to speak to Anders about when Gage was nearby. The Grey Warden _had_ been part of the effort that had saved both Hawke and Anders, and he had backed off his advances once it became clear that they were unwanted, but there yet remained something unidentifiable about Gage that made the warrior absolutely unwilling to trust him.

As they neared the outer door just inside the limits of the estate, Hawke stopped. He glanced behind him.

At the bottom of the flight of stairs they had just climbed was the deep vault, now empty of everything but cobwebs and dust. In that room, before he had bought the estate, Hawke had once stood with Bethany and read their grandparents' will. It had been less than five years previously, but it felt like two lifetimes ago.

For the first time in a long while, Hawke allowed himself to remember his sister. He could still recall the scent of her favourite perfume, gradually overcome by rot and mildew in the Deep Roads and then finally snuffed out completely by the darkspawn taint. His face twisted.

Gage kept walking, unaware that Hawke was no longer following. Anders continued for a few steps, reaching out with a pale aura surrounding his hand, groping with his magical senses.

"And of course my wards are in tatters," Anders said irritably. He turned around, noticing that Hawke had fallen behind him. "Michael? What is it?"

Hawke stepped forward reluctantly, shaking off his memories and eyeing the outer door. Past it was one of the larger rooms in his cellar, the one Anders had converted into a combination library and laboratory. In all likelihood, everyone else that had fought him in the Fade was waiting on the other side of that door, in the adjacent room or just beyond. The idea of coming face-to-face with them filled Hawke with a strange, intense discomfort. How much, he wondered, did they know? Did they realize that much of the time he had been tormenting them and chasing them around the Undercity, he was acting under his own personality, albeit augmented by the wyrd's power and subtle encouragement?

Would they even still want anything to do with him? Hawke wouldn't have blamed any of them at all for wanting out of his life, now that the threat the wyrd posed had been neutralized. He was fortunate enough that he hadn't completely alienated the man he loved.

Anders was watching him with worry in his eyes, and Reaver made a concerned whine. Ahead of them, Gage had opened the door and entered the laboratory, calling out for the Warden-Commander. Anders glanced over at him, waited until the door bumped shut, and then turned back to Hawke.

"Michael," Anders said. "Talk to me."

"Anders..." Hawke began uncertainly. "Do you think I should – I mean, is there – Maker _damn_ it." He grunted. "The others. Are they going to...?"

What was he even trying to say? Hawke had no idea how to articulate what he felt, and it was deeply annoying and frustrating.

Anders's face softened in realization, but as he was opening his mouth to speak, the door to the laboratory burst open and Isabela appeared, limned in the warm candlelight from within. Cullen and Merrill were right behind her.

"_Hawke_," Isabela said, and she rushed forward. Before Hawke had fully registered what was going on, she had collided with his chest and thrown her arms around his neck. Startled, Hawke could only stand there stiffly.

"You're okay. You're okay," Isabela mumbled over and over again, and Hawke felt another jolt of shock when he felt the warm wetness of her tears on his skin.

Over her shoulder, Hawke caught Anders's eye, and he scowled at the mage's knowing smile. His fears were baseless, evidently – which meant that Isabela and the others either didn't know it had been mostly him all throughout the ordeal... or they did, and didn't care.

Merrill moved eagerly out into the corridor, now joined by Varric, while the cautious templar hung back. Reaver was dancing around, barking enthusiastic greetings. Touched by her obvious concern for him, Hawke reached up with his free hand and rubbed Isabela's back. He moved slowly, not wanting to alarm the others with his claws, but it didn't help much.

"_Mythal'enaste_," Merrill swore.

Cullen's eyebrows shot up, and Varric's lips moved in a whisper so faint that Hawke doubted the dwarf could even hear it himself. To him, though, the words were distinctly audible: "Holy shit."

"Yes," Hawke said to Isabela in as reassuring a voice as he could muster. "I'm okay." He watched the others, trying to gauge their reactions to his claws. Varric still looked stunned, and Cullen wary. Merrill, oddly enough, seemed fascinated.

Isabela kept squeezing him, struggling to hold back tears. The display of raw emotion by the usually coquettish pirate was startling. What had happened to her, Hawke wondered, while he had been lost to the world, all but consumed by the wyrd and his own despair?

"Alright," Hawke grumbled. "Alright! Get a grip, pirate! And watch the greatsword, would you?" he added, trying to shift the blade of his weapon away from Isabela without also slicing open his shoulder. "I've got naked steel here."

"Right," Isabela sniffed, drawing back and wiping her eyes. She flashed him a warm smile, made bittersweet by the tears on her cheeks. "Sorry. I'm just... I'm just really glad you're okay. Back to normal."

"You saw this, right?" Hawke said, raising his left hand and spreading his claws before her. Isabela gasped and took an instinctive step backward. Hawke smiled thinly.

"Whoa. Uh... nnno, I didn't see _that_," she said, shooting a look at Anders. He shrugged in answer to Isabela's unspoken question.

"I haven't had a chance yet to perform a – erm – _detailed_ explanation," Anders said. "But it looks like some of the mutations caused by wyrd will be... permanent."

"Permanent," Cullen repeated, under his breath. Hawke heard him clearly, and while under normal circumstances he might have barked a challenge to the templar, he didn't feel up to it right now.

Isabela went over to hug Anders, who was surprised by the gesture but returned it with genuine warmth. Merrill stepped forward, also wanting a hug but clearly unsure about the forbidding look on Hawke's face. Softening, he obliged her, feeling a surge of affection for the slender elf. She seemed very slight when folded one arm completely around her shoulders.

"It's been a difficult journey," Merrill said softly, closing her eyes and leaning her head on his shoulder. "Very difficult. But I never stopped believing in you, Hawke. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you," Hawke said in a slightly rough voice. He remembered all too well how he had stalked Merrill in these very tunnels and menaced her with various threats. Her willing, unconditional forgiveness moved him deeply. "Thanks, Merrill."

She smiled at him, stepping back. Varric cleared his throat and reached out with his right hand. "Glad to see you're back to your old self, Hawke," he said. "So to speak. Uh-" he added hastily, as Hawke made to accept his handshake, "just be careful with those things, yeah?"

Hawke gave him a wry smirk. "Glad to be back, Varric. So to speak." He shook Varric's hand vigorously, having avoided slicing the dwarf's palm when placing his grip.

"Champion," Cullen said, extending his hand to shake as well.

"Knight-Captain," Hawke replied evenly, obliging. He was getting better at knowing where to place his fingers so as to not cut or stab people. He noted with an echo of faint humour that Cullen's clothes were actually _his_ clothes – his senses in the Fade hadn't deceived him. Unwilling to remind anyone of the way he had behaved in the spirit world when the topic had come up, Hawke refrained from commenting and said instead, "I admit I'm not sure why you're here – though I'm glad it's you, and not Meredith."

Cullen grimaced. "I as well, believe me. However, I _am_ here under her orders – I was to accompany Wynne on her business in the city, until its conclusion." His eyes grew distant. "I will have to return to the Gallows very soon, now that... now that that conclusion has come."

The templar allowed himself a short, unhappy grunt. "Shall we go?" he said, gesturing with his head behind him, toward the corridors that lead into the estate proper. "The others will want to see you."

"Where are they?" Hawke asked.

"In the ritual room," Varric said. "The blood mage'll have joined them by now... One of the darkspawn emissaries stayed behind to help Eingana and her Wardens take apart their magic circle. Aveline and Fenris were, ah, seeing to Wynne."

"Right." Hawke shifted uncomfortably and squared his shoulders. "Lead on, then."

Varric nodded and turned around to head back into the estate cellars, Merrill in tow. Anders and Hawke followed, with Cullen and Isabela taking up the rear. Hawke noticed Isabela shooting a glance at a particular book that sat on one of the tables and then inching minutely closer to Cullen. He looked at the book curiously, but it was just a nondescript leather-bound tome. From it, his eyes wandered around the room.

Anders kept close by Hawke's side as they crossed through the laboratory. Aside from the various paraphernalia of magical research and experimentation that cluttered the shelves and workbenches, the room was empty. The hearth was cold and empty of anything but the scattered ashes of a long dead fire. A few candles placed around the room pushed the shadows into the corners.

Hawke barely noticed. Memories, crystal clear, were flashing through his thoughts. The last time he had been in this room, he had fought Isabela and Fenris, dismissing with contempt their pleas for him to fight the wyrd's influence. He had unleashed agonizing magic against the two of them. If not for the intervention of Justice and Varric, Isabela and Fenris would doubtless both be dead.

Hawke's grip tightened involuntarily on the hilt of his greatsword and he made to clench his other fist, but the prick of his claws in his palm stopped him.

A cool hand on his back made Hawke tense momentarily. He glanced over to see Anders giving him a gentle smile and rubbing soothing circles between his shoulders. Hawke mustered a smile in return, though it was more of a grimace, and tried to relax.

They walked in meditative silence for a few more minutes until they reached the ritual chamber. The floor was dominated by the partially-dismantled circle, an intricate design of intersecting lines, arcs, and chords. Gage was working with a graceful Dalish woman, presumably another Grey Warden, to safely diffuse the fog of lyrium vapours that filled a bubble of magic above the circle. Helping them was a squat, grotesque creature, decked out in leather and ancient rusted plate.

It took Hawke a moment to recognize the thing as a genlock. By the way it was waving a staff and manipulating lyrium, the creature was clearly an adept sorcerer. Hawke had seen more than a few darkspawn in his lifetime and had even fought hurlock mages, but he had never before seen a genlock capable of wielding magic.

Aveline, Fenris, and Eingana weren't as enthusiastic with their greetings as the others had been, but Hawke could tell they were happy to see him. All gave him grave nods, and even Fenris smiled.

Someone had carried Wynne out of the circle and laid her in a peaceful repose on the cleanest available patch of floor. Her eyes were closed and her hands folded on her chest. While Anders talked with the others, Hawke looked at the elderly mage who had given her life for him without ever having truly met him. He found himself wondering if there was something he could have done. From his vague understanding of what had occurred in the Fade, Hawke knew that Wynne had been near the end of her life anyways and that she had neither suffered nor gone to her fate unwillingly. Even so, looking at her motionless body, her aura of calm and soothing magic stilled in death, Hawke felt the familiar slow burn of anger stirring to life deep in his chest. The wyrd had taken so much, from so many. Part of him wanted very badly for the thing to be alive again just so he could rip it apart himself.

Once the lyrium vapours had been safely diffused, the remainder of the ritual circle's enchantments were swiftly dismantled. The genlock mage and the hurlock that had fought with the others in the Fade were preparing to leave. Before they departed, the genlock made a subtle gesture to Eingana. She nodded, moving over to speak with him.

While the genlock was stumping over to a far corner of the room and Eingana following him, the hurlock stopped to speak with the others. Hawke deduced from their conversation that the creature's name was the Unspoken, and that he was associated with the other intelligent darkspawn allied with the Grey Wardens.

The level of familiarity that had arisen between his friends and the hurlock surprised Hawke. Isabela, Merrill, Varric, and Cullen all thanked the Unspoken for his help, and Aveline even shook his clawed hand. Nobody seemed remotely disturbed when the Unspoken gave them a ghastly, toothy smile, nor did they display any anxiety about contracting the taint; apparently, his conspicuous lack of interest in tearing anyone in the room limb from limb was suspicious to nobody but Hawke.

The warrior was amazed. Friendship with a hurlock? The very idea was preposterous. Yet the interactions he was witnessing now seemed like nothing less. Merrill and Isabela even seemed sad that the Unspoken was about to leave.

Hawke studied the darkspawn thoughtfully. He was obviously intelligent – Hawke had heard hurlocks form crude sentences in the Deep Roads for the purposes of malice or mockery, but the Unspoken spoke clearly and articulately if with odd syntax and a noticeable lisp. If one looked past the strange accent and the bestial features, he might even have been – a man. The thought was jarring to Hawke, who had personally killed thousands of hurlocks over his lifetime, in Ferelden during the Blight and later on Bartrand's expedition.

In the corner, the genlock was conversing quietly with Eingana. He seemed to be relying more on gestures and inarticulate grunts than actual words, but Hawke couldn't make out what either of the two were saying to one another. When he tried to block out other sounds and listen, an irritating buzzing noise began to build up in his head. Suspicious, Hawke looked directly at the genlock, and at once it looked right back at him with an unreadable, alien expression. The squat creature was far more bestial than even the hurlock – the shape of its mouth didn't appear conducive to properly forming the words of a human or elven language. Even so, the intelligence in the genlock's eyes was unnerving. Did he know, somehow, that Hawke's hearing was more acute than that of the others? Had he cast a spell to make sure his conversation with Eingana wasn't overheard?

Presently they finished and Eingana rejoined the group. The genlock hung back, almost as if he was shy, or sensed he hadn't quite gained the acceptance that the Unspoken had. Still, when Hawke shot him another curious look, the genlock opened its prominent, toothy mouth in a silent hiss. Hawke bared his teeth and snarled right back, and the genlock looked away submissively.

"Commander," Gage said brusquely as he and the elven Warden approached. "It is time to leave. We have already delayed far more than we can afford."

"Yes, I know," Eingana said. "You two go, and when you get to base tell the advance party to go on ahead. Send Nathaniel and Xandra with them and prepare everyone else to leave at midday. I will join you before then."

"You should join us now," Gage said with a hint of contempt in his voice. "We have done all we need to do here. Leave the dogs to chew on their toys." He threw an ugly look in Hawke's direction. Reaver growled menacingly and stepped forward, pawing the floor.

"Leave him, boy," Hawke said with a sneer. "As much as I'd enjoy seeing you tear his face off – Eingana might be cross with us."

Gage spread his arms in mock encouragement. "Oh, by all means – do give him his head," he said with badly affected sincerity. "_Nothing_ would please me more than to see the expression on your face when your mutt failed in the attempt."

"'_Mutt_?'" Hawke repeated as Reaver bounded forward another few steps, barking furiously. Gage didn't flinch or back down, but he did tense, watching the Mabari hound carefully.

"You little shit," Hawke snarled, unfolding his arm holding his greatsword to level it in front of him with slow, murderous intent. With his other hand, he flexed his fingers, a gathering storm of bloodlust making him eager to see just how it felt to slice flesh with his claws. "I've had just about enough of your lip."

Gage was glancing critically between Hawke and Reaver, preparing to defend himself with his staff. Before Hawke could move forward, a burst of unexpected calm in his chest made him pause. The moment of stillness was enough for Eingana to step between the two men.

"Hawke," Eingana said softly, holding out a placating hand towards him even as her other had a tight grip on the scruff of Reaver's neck, preventing him from charging. "Relax."

Eingana turned around to face Gage. "And you-"

"What, Commander?" Gage snapped, plainly still somewhat flustered by the threat of Reaver and Hawke. "How much time have we wasted on these fools already? How much more will we waste? You know what is at stake as well as I do. Are you prepared to face the consequences of your dallying?"

"_Thank_ you, Gage, for that scintillating commentary," Eingana said irritably. "You know what you're supposed to be doing. I will stay here a while longer. If you question me again, I will cut your balls off and feed them to you. Now _get the fuck to work_!"

Gage stared at her for a moment, and then gave an indifferent, twitchy shrug as he turned to leave. He blew a sarcastic kiss in Anders's direction, shot one final glowering look at Hawke, and left the room.

Eingana sighed and rubbed her forehead. "I'm sorry about that, Hawke," she muttered.

Hawke, his fury brought to a standstill by a bloom of calming magic from the spirit inside him, had hardly heard the Grey Wardens' exchange. He blinked, feeling his rage simmering back down to a manageable level. It never quite went away – as it rarely had for the last decade and a half of his life – but it was at least no longer blurring his vision and burning away his reason. He took a few deep breaths, carefully returned his sword to his shoulder, and made some wordless noises of reassurance to Reaver.

A concerned hand smoothed across the tense muscles of his upper back. "Love," Anders murmured somewhere near his right ear. "Are you-?"

"Fine," Hawke said shortly. "I'm fine, Anders. ...Thank you," he added in an undertone. When he glanced at the mage, Anders gave him a soft smile, and Hawke felt a powerful clench of love in his chest. He leaned over to give his lover a thorough kiss. It was becoming increasingly difficult to pull away, and Hawke itched for the moment when the two of them would finally be alone.

The Dalish Warden, who had watched the minor altercation with bored annoyance, stayed long enough to take Merrill by the hands and whisper a tender "_Dareth shiral_" before she followed Gage out into the corridor and presumably up to the city, heading for wherever the Grey Wardens were based. Merrill waved as the other elf departed, brushing an errant tear from her eye.

The Unspoken and the genlock soon retreated back into the labyrinth as well, no doubt meaning to rejoin the Architect and his other Disciples, waiting in the depths to return to whatever business intelligent darkspawn got up to underground. With the Unspoken having conversed with the others already, the farewells were brief and to the point. Eingana patted the Unspoken affectionately on the shoulder, and he set out after the genlock.

It was only then, when he saw that everyone remaining in the room had gathered into a loose circle about Wynne's body, that Hawke realized what was going on. The others were solemn and quiet. Eingana, Merrill and Isabela were visibly upset, and Aveline seemed to be tearing up a little as well. Anders, too, was fighting back tears, so Hawke took his hand in a gesture of support, but he found it difficult to do anything else but stare fixedly at a spot of floor to the right of the enchanter's head. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was alive only because she wasn't. It felt uncomfortably inappropriate for him to be present at a funerary rite for a woman he had never known and had indirectly killed. Intellectually, Hawke realized the others probably wouldn't see it that way, but it was easy to imagine that their silence was accusatory rather than mournful.

The ceremony was simple, but conducted with sincerity. Cullen gave a short eulogy, to which Anders and Eingana added a few words. Then the templar spoke the traditional words from the Chant of Light, commending Wynne's soul to the Maker.

Hawke took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and did something he rarely did: pray. In his mind, he spoke his heartfelt gratitude to the mage who had saved his mind and his life and so much else besides, and he entreated the Maker to see to it that Wynne was kept safe and warm at His side. What extravagant destruction might the wyrd have unleashed on the world, Hawke contemplated, if Wynne had not done what she had? If anyone deserved to bask in the light of the Maker, it was Enchanter Wynne of the Circle of Magi.

Finally, Anders cast a cleansing fire over the body, reducing it to ashes in moments as the prophet Andraste had once been. With his magic, Anders gathered the ashes into a sphere to be taken outside and scattered to the winds.

It was over. They left the room, heading at long last back up into the estate proper, where the light and the crisp chill of midmorning would be streaming into the common room through its high windows. Hawke, giving Anders's hand an affectionate squeeze, found himself looking forward to breathing the fresh air.

**ασυνέχεια**

The others gradually dispersed over the course of the day, wandering out into a changed city as if this were the conclusion of any other job they had completed with Hawke.

Bodahn was overjoyed to see Hawke alive and well and back to his usual surly self. Sandal seemed happy to see him as well, in his usual uncomplicated manner, though Hawke was unsure if the odd dwarf realized the full extent of what had occurred. He was touched that Bodahn and Sandal had stayed on all throughout the chaos and danger, and promised that if ever they needed anything in his power to grant, it would be theirs.

Hawke ascended briefly to his bedroom to change into clean trousers and find a shirt to wear. He insisted everyone stay for at least a quick meal before they departed, and at his request Bodahn put together a hearty brunch of scrambled eggs, sausage, and Orlesian toast. Once Hawke returned in fresh finery, he and Anders helped the dwarf in the kitchen. Privately, the warrior found the mindless manual labour involved in the preparation of food to be soothing, and when the meal was ready much of the tension and subconscious anxiety he had been carrying since waking up in the nexus chamber had melted away. It certainly helped that Gage was no longer around, continually rousing his anger.

Eingana ate a little with the rest of them, but soon left to join the rest of her Wardens, saying little other than that she would keep in touch with Anders. She also promised to write to Merrill, who had grown rather fond of her.

Hawke had been watching the Warden-Commander closely all morning. Anders, who was apparently familiar with the ritual that had saved Hawke's life, had explained its workings to him in undertone during the meal. Hawke was curious as to how and particularly _why_ Eingana had summoned not only her own men but also intelligent darkspawn mages to help him. Despite the apparent urgency of her expedition, she had even entered the Fade herself, a risky venture under any circumstances.

Hawke hadn't had a chance to speak with Eingana in private since he had woken up, and he suspected she had somehow engineered things that way. If she was aware of Hawke's scrutiny, Eingana gave no sign, nor did her behaviour reveal any clues. Less than two hours after his awakening, the Hero of Ferelden disappeared from Hawke's life almost as suddenly as she had appeared in it five days previously.

Cullen excused himself soon afterwards, citing his obligation to report to Knight-Commander Meredith. He took the sphere of ashes with him for delivery to Cumberland, where they would be dispersed in accordance with Wynne's testament. Judiciously, Cullen thanked Hawke for the use of his clothes, and changed back into his heavy plate before leaving the estate.

Out of gratitude for their help saving him from the wyrd, Hawke pretended not to notice when Isabela slipped quietly upstairs after the templar. He asked no questions when they returned to the ground floor several minutes later than it would have taken for Cullen to don his armour, and following his example, neither did anyone else.

Aveline stayed a little longer to help make sure the estate was secure, though she was eager to return to the Viscount's Keep to check on the status of her guards and their renegade templar allies. Fenris lingered a while as well, but was soon wondering aloud if he would have to cleanse his mansion of squatters upon his return.

"Fenris, _you_ are a squatter," Aveline pointed out.

"Exactly," Fenris said with a wry smile. "I was there first."

Merrill was anxious to return to the alienage, concerned about how the elves there had weathered the invasion and curious to try out some ideas on her ancient, broken eluvian that had occurred to her over the last several days. Varric volunteered to accompany her, as he intended to head for the Hanged Man to check in with his contacts and find out how power had shifted in the city during the upheaval. Isabela went with them, ostensibly to inquire about any change in the availability of acquirable ships; the winks and sly grins she threw in Hawke's direction made it clear that she had really just noticed the way he was looking at Anders.

Merrill, Varric, and Isabela were the last to leave. Before the echoes of their voices had completely disappeared into the streets of Hightown, Hawke had shoved Anders against the wall of the common room and kissed him hard. Anders, taken by surprise and unwilling to move because of Hawke's claws on either side of his head, started to muster a half-hearted protest. But the moment his lips parted, Hawke's tongue was in his mouth. He laved against Anders's teeth, and after a second his lover gave in and responded in kind.

Hawke kept at it, giving Anders only moments in between hungry kisses to catch his breath. His heart was thudding in his chest, his blood was hot with desire, and it felt incredible, liberating – the lust was all his, nothing else. He slid his hands down the wall to grip Anders by his shoulders. The mage's arms were encircling his waist, hands slipping under his shirt and teasing the small of his back. Hawke made a rumble of pleasure deep in his chest and leaned forward to brush his lips and teeth against Anders's jaw.

"Michael," Anders said breathlessly. "Are you sure you want to-"

He got no further, as Hawke claimed his mouth in another greedy kiss, hands making their way down his arms and over his body. Anders's hands clenched, digging into Hawke's sides in a way that provoked a lusty growl. Hawke opened his eyes, staring at Anders as he caught the mage's lower lip between his teeth and sucked on it. He wanted very badly to slice right through the robe to get at Anders's chest with his mouth, but he had a feeling his lover wouldn't appreciate that much.

"-right now?" Anders managed to gasp before Hawke's lips were on his once again. Lightheaded with lust, it took Hawke a moment to register that his lover had spoken. He licked along Anders's jaw to his ear and nipped at the lobe.

"Guess," Hawke murmured, working his hands into the front of the mage's robes.

"There are things-" Anders inhaled sharply when he felt the points of Hawke's claws trailing down his ribs. "Things I really should... check," he said intermittently around Hawke's insistent lips. "The Veil-"

"-can wait," Hawke growled. "I can't. I've wanted you so badly ever since I woke up... I want you now, I need you _now_. Right now. Don't you fucking dare say no to me, mage."

Anders let out a soft chuckle that quickly became a moan as Hawke's lips and tongue moved to his neck. Clawed hands pushed his loosened robe down over his shoulders.

"Alright – _alright_!" Anders repeated when Hawke's teeth grazed the skin of his throat, producing a brief and thrilling twinge of pain. "I think – ah! I think I can work with that."

"Good," Hawke murmured against his neck, gripping Anders's butt beneath his robes and rutting against his thigh.

"Maybe we should go upstairs-?" Anders suggested, but Hawke cut him off again with a kiss.

"No," Hawke said. "Here."

Anders glanced around as best as he could with the weight of Hawke's body pinning him against the wall. "But Bodahn-"

"Maker's breath, man!" Hawke exclaimed. "Why don't you shut up and suck my cock?"

Anders laughed and planted an affectionate kiss on Hawke's cheek. "Such a romantic," he said wryly. "As you command, my love."

Hawke turned them around so he could lean against the wall as Anders sank to his knees, trailing his hands down Hawke's chest and hooking his fingers into the warrior's trousers. He leaned forward to nuzzle against the bulge of Hawke's erection, teasing it through the fabric with his lips and nose. Hawke gave a low grunt of pleasure and ground his hips against Anders's face.

"That's it," he muttered. "You want it? You want me to shove my cock down your throat, mage? You want me to fuck your face?"

"Yes," Anders groaned, his fingers working the laces of Hawke's trousers as the erotic words spiked his own desire. He inhaled deeply, savouring the whiff of blood and musk that intensified when he tugged Hawke's trousers down to his knees. Anders slid his hands up into the legs of Hawke's shorts, caressing his meaty thighs. His right thumb brushed past the warmth and hardness of Hawke's cock, and he shifted his hand over to curl his fingers around it.

Hawke cupped his hand against the back of Anders's head as the mage drew his shorts down and caught them under his balls. In a smooth motion, Anders engulfed half of Hawke's length in his mouth. Hawke groaned his satisfaction and shoved his hips forward to penetrate deeper into Anders's throat.

"_Fuck_, yeah..."

Anders began to work his lips up and down the length of Hawke's shaft, gripping his hips tightly. The sensations of his lover's skilled tongue sliding over the ridge of his glans induced a burst of pleasing warmth in Hawke's gut. He wanted more, and it was all he could do not to ram himself down Anders's throat as hard as he could. He flexed his claws and trailed one affectionately down his lover's cheek, hollowed with the suction of what he was doing.

"_Nnngghhh_... yeah, that's it... all the way down," Hawke said. "Come on, mage, take it as deep as I know you can... all the way to the base."

Anders looked up at him, and for a moment as he bobbed up and down, their eyes were locked together. Then he complied, swallowing Hawke's entire length.

"Ohhh, good boy," Hawke groaned. "Good boy." The sight of his lover's face buried in his pubic hair, coupled with the moist, constricting heat surrounding his cock, was absolutely intoxicating.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Hawke gripped the sides of Anders's head and started to thrust himself in and out with increasing force. Anders nearly choked a few times, but he withstood the aggressive treatment of his body with the same paradoxical enjoyment he always had. The delicious gagging noises he made inflamed Hawke's lust further.

The warrior cupped Anders's jaw affectionately, claws pricking the smooth skin of his throat where it fluttered with the unyielding passage of thick, rigid cock. A moment later Anders tried to pull away, but Hawke was caught up in his wild ecstasy and easily prevented it. Eventually the pained look Anders was giving him penetrated the fog of his lust, and Hawke desisted. Anders drew back to take a few much-needed breaths. Unwilling to stop completely, Hawke rutted against Anders's face, trailing saliva and pre-ejaculate along his cheek.

Needle-thin tendrils of electricity danced among Anders's fingertips as he caressed the smooth muscle of Hawke's hips. Spikes of intense sensation pierced into the pit of his stomach, and Hawke groaned with startled pleasure.

"Not that I don't find your enthusiasm exciting," Anders commented as he caught his breath. "But maybe slow down a bit, just at first, so I can get used to it... it'll be better for you _and_ your glorious dick if I'm not choking on it, don't you think?"

"Bullshit," Hawke said with a snicker, slapping his cock hard against Anders's face. "You know I love it when you gag. _You_ love it too – you just won't admit it."

Anders rolled his eyes and smirked. "Guilty," he said playfully, and Hawke let out an appreciate groan when the mage dove back down on his cock. He thrust himself into Anders's throat as deep as he could go, grinding himself around to feel the contortions of hot wet flesh rubbing against his shaft.

"There," Hawke snarked. "Get used to it – like this." He gyrated his hips against Anders's face, relishing the choking noises Anders was making. "See? I can compromise."

Anders smiled as best he could around the fleshy rod lodged in his throat and worked his tongue against the veiny underside. The firm stubbly pressure of Anders's chin against his balls delighted Hawke almost as much as did the sight of his lover's lips wrapped around the base of his shaft.

Anders's hands fluttered up over Hawke's abdomen, and he released more sporadic jolts of electricity, stronger this time. The vibrant tingling sensation curled in his gut and reached out spidery tendrils to twine around the root of his cock.

"Oh, _fuck_," Hawke breathed. His hands twitched, and he released his hold on Anders's head, not wanting to accidently stab with his claws in his passion. The mage drew back enough to get a breath, but then slid forward again, working Hawke's length with his lips and the muscles of his throat. The electricity dancing inside him made Hawke curiously weak, unable to do anything but lean against the wall and enjoy what his lover was doing to him. Hawke panted for breath, grunting inarticulately whenever Anders took him all the way into the pit of his throat.

Vaguely, Hawke felt one of Anders's hands trailing fingers alive with lightning down his left buttock, around his thigh to his front and in between his legs. Through the fog of pleasure filling his mind, the warrior barely recognized the sensation of a questing fingertip sliding around his heavy balls. Then Anders touched a shock of power against his perineum that arced immediately inwards, to his prostate.

"Oh, bloody Andraste!" Hawke cried, hands slackening and claws trailing down behind Anders's ears. Vivacious ecstasy burst from that secret spot inside him, flooding through his entire body in an expanding wave of warmth. Anders cut off his electricity a moment later, but the blooming pleasure in Hawke's gut took several seconds to fade away. Breathing hard, watching Anders bobbing up and down on his cock with half-lidded eyes, Hawke unconsciously started thrusting his hips forward again, matching his lover's rhythm.

"Do that... again," Hawke demanded weakly. Their eyes met, Anders smiled, and when the next shock speared up into him, Hawke lost control. With a savage growl, he forced Anders's head down on his cock as deep as it would go and fucked wildly, coming in bursts of ecstatic heat. Spasms of pleasure pulsed along the length of his cock and shuddered throughout his body. His first rope of hot spunk shot right down Anders's throat; the second covered the mage's tongue. Groaning, Hawke withdrew himself completely and slid his shaft along Anders's lips, and a third and fourth jet landed messily on his lover's jaw and upper neck. The electricity sizzling through him began to dwindle, slowly.

Anders flicked his tongue against the slit at the tip of Hawke's cock and then went back down on it to catch the last few spurts in his mouth. Hawke, heaving for breath, found himself unable to make any noises more coherent than sighs and growls. He jerked involuntarily a few times when Anders's tongue smoothed over the head of his cock, highly sensitive just moments after his intense orgasm. Hawke gripped Anders by his head as the mage's lips slid leisurely up and down his shaft, catching any missed gobs of semen and sucking out the last few drops. The sensations were incredible, especially coupled with the weak sparks still jumping between Anders's right hand and Hawke's skin.

Finally, Anders withdrew his lips from Hawke's cock with a long, slow suck that produced a distinct popping noise when he broke contact. Anders smiled up at Hawke, stroking him gently with his right hand, one side of his face and neck splattered with semen.

"Maker's breath, man," Hawke said huskily. He reached down and gripped Anders around his ribs, hauling the mage to his feet. "You beautiful, beautiful man. _Nnngghh_-"

Hawke leaned forward eagerly and sucked on Anders's jaw, trailing his tongue around to gather the evidence of his release. His lips moved from Anders's jaw down to his neck and around, pausing briefly to kiss the pulse at his throat, and then back up his chin. Hawke nipped at Anders's lower lip a few times and then leaned in to kiss him deeply. Anders responded with enthusiasm, exploring Hawke's mouth with his tongue, seeking to share in his lover's musky taste.

Caressing the sides of Anders's face as they kissed, Hawke's sensitive fingertips traced over something that made him pause. He pulled away, ignoring Anders's questioning look, and examined the mage's skin closely.

"_Fuck_."

A crescent of five minor puncture wounds, small but widely spaced, ran from both of Anders's temples, behind his ears and down his neck. Hawke's face twitched in self-disgust. Clearly, he hadn't been as careful as he'd thought.

"What is it?" Anders asked, reaching up to feel the side of his face.

Hawke jerked his claws away from Anders's hand, internally cringing away from memories rising to the surface of his mind. As clearly as if it were happening over again, he saw the spikes on the ends of his fingers opening Anders's flesh, spilling long red ribbons of blood. He tried to stop thinking about it, but it was no use. It was all but impossible to look away from the marks on Anders's neck, and Hawke could feel tendrils of sadistic desire creeping into him. He found himself itching to reach out and taste the tiny droplets of blood seeping from Anders's injuries.

In desperation, Hawke tried to dredge up the spirit living inside him, pleading for its help in overcoming his urges – whether they were his own or some relic of the wyrd's, he wanted them gone. To his surprise and intense relief, it worked. A feeling of coolness and equanimity, gentle but unyielding, spread throughout him from the core of his being. The disturbing images faded into the depths of memory and the insane, bloodthirsty lust melted away. Hawke took a deep breath, reassured of his self-control, but the shame of what he had done in his passion still rankled him.

"Sorry," Hawke mumbled. "I'm sorry." Anders tried to catch his eyes, but Hawke looked away.

"Michael, we've been over this," Anders said. "Come on, look at me."

Hawke frowned and raised his eyes. Anders reached out to run affectionate fingers through Hawke's beard.

"It's _alright_, love," Anders said. He sounded like he meant it, and Hawke's spirits lifted a little. "Don't stress yourself over it. I know you didn't mean to hurt me."

He leaned in to resume their interrupted kiss. Hawke's eyes drifted closed as their lips connected.

When they parted several seconds later, Hawke's eyes were drawn again to the wounds his claws had left on Anders's face and neck.

"Aren't you going to heal them?" he asked.

Anders shook his head. "No."

"Why not?" Hawke asked curiously.

"They're you," Anders said. "Nothing else. These are _your_ marks, Michael. I'm not ashamed to be yours, I'm proud."

Feelings of love and gratitude surged powerfully in Hawke's chest at the words. He leaned forward to sniff at Anders's neck, resting his hands on his lover's collarbones. As he inhaled, he carefully stroked his thumb claws against the hollow of Anders's throat. He could feel the slight rub of the motion on his claws, still a novel experience and strangely soothing. Anders smelled wintry and fresh, like a highland morning, coupled with the tang of magic and a slight ripeness that no doubt resulted from several days gone without bathing. The rich combination of sensations effectively reignited Hawke's lust. He brushed his lips against Anders's jaw, relishing the stubbly coarseness.

"Good," Hawke murmured. "I'm honoured by your pride, Anders. Now-" he reached down into Anders's robe, still loosened from his earlier efforts, and slid a warm hand over the smooth firmness of the mage's butt. "We have a problem that needs to be fixed right away."

"What's that?" Anders asked, a little breathlessly, hands squeezing Hawke's waist.

"You haven't gotten off yet." Hawke teased the small of Anders's back with a claw and made to kiss him again, but Anders surprised him by pulling away. Hawke frowned.

"What-?" he asked, but Anders's finger on his lips cut him off.

"Let's save that for later," Anders said.

Hawke stared at him, baffled. "Anders... you just made me come, and it was fucking incredible. Now I'm going to make _you_ come and I want it to be just as incredible. But you have to work with me here. Why does this always happen? Do I have to tie you up to be able to suck you off?"

Anders's lips quirked.

"Because I will," Hawke added, severely. "Don't test me, mage."

"That... is actually an intriguing idea," Anders admitted.

"Mmhmm." Hawke pulled Anders closer to him and nipped at the mage's lower lip. "So if you'll just give me a minute to find some rope – I promise you, I will make you come so hard even Justice will be whimpering for more."

Anders laughed. "Now _that_ is an interesting thought! But as tempting as it sounds... I'd rather hold it off until later. Let me save myself for you, love. The anticipation will make it all the better, for both of us. _And_ Justice."

Hawke leaned back against the wall and rolled his eyes as he rubbed his hands up and down Anders's arms. His cock, still semi-hard, pressed against the mage's hip. "This is – what is this? That Orlesian phrase, what is it – _déjà vu_. Do you remember the last time this happened?" He looked at Anders with one eyebrow arched sardonically. "You gave me a fantastic blowjob and did your lightning thing, and then you refused to let me get you off, and then – what? That's right, and then I went crazy and nearly killed you."

"Yes, but that won't happen this time," Anders said patiently.

"Maybe I make you come now, and then _again_ later."

"Michael-"

Hawke gripped Anders by his shoulders and bit him on the ear, stopping barely short of breaking the skin. "Maybe I won't give you a choice," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

"Humour me," Anders said.

Hawke relented with an annoyed grunt and kissed Anders roughly, pushing his tongue into the mage's mouth for a brief but fiery duel.

"Up to you, mage," Hawke growled.

"It's not that I don't want you to," Anders said as he stepped back, giving the warrior room to pull up his shorts and trousers. It was quite obvious to Hawke that Anders was watching him maneuver his cock into his shorts, and he smirked knowingly.

"I really, really do," Anders said, confirming Hawke's observation. He started to renew his argument, but Anders talked over him. "It's just that there are other things that need my attention, with greater urgency than my need to ejaculate."

Hawke scoffed. "And what about _my_ need for you to ejaculate?"

Anders smiled. "More urgent even than that."

"What, pray tell, could be so important?"

"The Veil," Anders said, straightening his robe and tightening the sashes and buckles that Hawke had loosened. "I need to check how much it's been weakened. After a major demonic invasion like the one that just happened, any number of spirits will have come through – some of them not even by choice. I understand the mansion was warded, but you'd be surprised the nooks and crannies between metaphysical walls that spirits can fit themselves into. There are bound to be wisps at least, hanging around in the walls. And there's no telling what else might have come through and is just laying low. It's not a good idea to let such things settle and start learning how to drain from the world around them."

"Alright," Hawke conceded as he fastened the laces of his trousers. "I suppose I can understand that. I'm going with you, though."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Anders smiled at him and reached out to run a finger up Hawke's throat and along the underside of his chin. Hawke tilted his head back with a delighted purr, eyes drifting half-closed.

"But don't think I'm not going to take you up on your offer soon enough," the mage whispered, and he turned to head towards the stairs. Hawke watched him intently, unable to stifle the bite of his disappointment. Anders's reasons were compelling enough. But that last intimate gesture – it both elated and surprised Hawke. He couldn't remember Anders ever being so... seductive. Had the mage changed since their ordeal had begun, the night Hawke's mother had died? Or had the wyrd been subconsciously distorting his perception of Anders's behaviour for half a decade, _encouraging_ him to see his lover as submissive?

Hawke forced the thoughts out of his mind. There was no sense worrying over something he could never know and which hardly mattered. Eyes on Anders's butt, he followed the mage up to the second floor.

**ασυνέχεια**

Hawke and Anders spent much of the day wandering around the mansion, accompanied by Reaver, talking quietly and repairing damage. Demonic incursions had left signs of battle in various places throughout the estate. More than a few windows had been shattered into powder, some so completely that not even Anders's magic could reconstitute them into crystal-clear glass; these they boarded up to keep out thieves and city wildlife until replacement glass could be ordered.

With Sandal's help, the men also spent some time dealing with the wards which the others had installed around the mansion during the height of the invasion. Some of the inscribed lyrium runes were unstable over long periods of time, never meant to be more than temporary solutions to the problem of incursions from the spirit world. Hawke was glad to find that some of the more durable runes could be left in place to assist in keeping out the numerous new otherworldly residents the city that had accumulated in the past few days.

At one point, as they were walking down an undamaged corridor on the second floor, Anders paused in response to some stimulus undetectable to Hawke. He made a number of strange gestures in the air, sometimes grasping and pulling, other times manipulating his fingers as if weaving delicate strands of silk. Reaver sat down on the floor at watched Anders curiously.

"What are you doing?" Hawke asked.

"Listening," Anders said. He waved his hand in an arc before him with his fingers spread. As his hand passed through the air, an opaque rent was briefly outlined by the rich Fade-blue of Anders's magic.

"This is a tear in the Veil," Anders explained. "It's tiny – nothing can get through it as it is now, other than a slow and harmless energy bleed. But that bleed might widen the rift over time, depending on the quality of flux on the other side... and any intrepid spirit with enough power could force it open and cross over."

He gathered coils of power in his hands and worked diligently in some fashion beyond Hawke's understanding. A few minutes later, Anders pronounced himself satisfied and the tear sealed, and they moved on.

Hawke couldn't sense whatever had made Anders stop in the first place, but the reality of the spirit living inside him and his own recent manipulation of colossal magical forces under the wyrd's influence had sparked his curiosity. He had never been much concerned with the strange intelligences that lurked in the spirit world. They were for mages to deal with, and when they crossed the Veil, Hawke could slash them to ribbons with his sword just like he could anything else. But recent events had forced him to consider spirits and demons in an entirely different light.

The second time Anders paused in their inspection and began to work with unseen forces, Hawke watched him closely, surprised at the depth of his own fascination; despite his scrutiny, he was still as blind to the flows of magical power as he had always been. The third time, a noise from some far-off corner of the mansion reminded Hawke of his newly sensitive hearing, and so he tried instead to listen, the word Anders had used.

As he concentrated on listening to the whisper of air over Anders's fingers, Hawke felt a distant stirring inside of him, a series of twinges seemingly in synch with the gestures his lover was making. The sensations were barely perceptible as unrelated to the rhythms of his own body. Hawke suspected it was the spirit of Faith reacting to Anders's magic, and so he focused on the feeling as he eyed what the mage was doing.

It took some time to for his sensitivity to magic to increase beyond a vague tingling sensation in his gut, and it seemed like the awareness he built up immediately began to diminish if his attention slipped. Still Hawke kept at it with dogged patience. He had a feeling that if he continued to work on it, he might eventually be able to sense magic operating in his vicinity the way Anders did, though likely to a lesser extent.

Anders stopped to seal tears in the Veil several times throughout the day, most on the second floor and three more on the third. Two of the tears on the third floor were large enough that wisps and a few minor spirits had drifted through in the last day, which they dispatched without difficulty. The second of these larger rifts was sufficiently intense that Hawke detected its presence at the same time Anders did, confirming his earlier notion.

He watched as Anders spread his hands and Justice surged forth, casting nets and loops of sparkling azure magic into the air. The glow of magic on Hawke's skin felt strange, simultaneously warm and cool. The part of him that was Faith shuddered at the sensual pleasure of it, but Hawke shied away from enjoying it too much – it evoked fresh memories of his time in the Fade, abusing Justice with magical storms of alternating ecstasy and agony.

As it turned out, much of the work that needed to be done could be done with one's hands as well as with magic. Apparently aware of Hawke's need to feel useful in his own home, Anders refrained from casting indiscriminate reparatory spells. He used magic only when necessary and instead helped Hawke to clean the debris of damaged walls and railings, mend the occasional broken piece of furniture, and board up irreparably broken windows.

Hawke found himself relishing the peaceful ambience of the sunny but cool afternoon, the unhurried conversation, and the simple physical motions of repair work. It was immeasurably relaxing just to spend time with the man he loved, getting accustomed to the changes in his body, breathing in the cool air without worrying about losing control of himself and turning into a monster.

Hawke hadn't had a chance to work with his hands in a way that didn't involve killing in a long, long time. He still liked fighting too much to hang up his greatsword, and no doubt there were plenty of demons remaining in the city to be hunted down and killed. But he wondered if, in between jobs, he might take up a hobby. Perhaps he could even use his claws to carve wood?

Later that evening, after they had eaten supper, Hawke gave Bodahn and Sandal the night off. The dwarves departed, to visit their friends who had survived the invasion and pay their respects to those who had not. While the mansion more than large enough for Hawke to be intimate with Anders without being overheard, he wanted it to be empty but for the two of them. He wanted to be alone with his lover, _truly_ alone, even if it was just for one night. Hawke had a creeping, uneasy feeling that Anders would throw himself back into fighting for the cause of mage freedom come the next morning, and he was eager to savour these last few hours of peace and quiet.

It wasn't hard to imagine the self-righteous uproar that would have engulfed the Templar Order after the events of the last few days, not to mention Meredith's fury over the desertion of more than a few of her subordinates – including several of high rank. Anders would certainly have his work cut out for him once he returned to his cause. No doubt he would want his lover's help, too, and while Hawke wasn't exactly spoiling to fight templars, he wouldn't hesitate for a second to defend Anders against anyone and anything with his life.

Despite their conspicuous lack of intense physical exertion during the day, both men were comfortably weary by the time the Chantry's distant bells sounded the call to complins. Evidently, extreme activity in the Fade was more than enough to tire a body out, even if said body remained comatose in the physical world and suspended in temporal stasis throughout.

Neither Anders nor Hawke had bathed since their riotous bout of sex in the bathtub, four days prior in the real world and much, much longer in the Fade. Anders was glad to take the opportunity to enjoy a hot bath. Hawke might have joined him, but he knew he would be unable to resist giving in to his desires for the mage and he needed a bath rather badly himself. He was content to wait until they were both clean to express his affection.

While Anders was in the bath, Hawke busied himself caring lovingly for his greatsword, which had suffered considerable wear in the past few days. He cleaned, sharpened, and oiled the blade, polished the hilt and pommel, and replaced the ragged, bloodstained leather on the handle. He also spent some time cleaning his armour, even though he hadn't actually worn it since the battle on the Wounded Coast against spiders and Tal-Vashoth that had been the catalyst for everything that followed.

Anders left the door to the chamber open as he bathed, allowing them to talk. The mage seemed to enjoy luxuriating in the steaming water, and the scent of soap drifted out into the bedroom with his soft voice. Though Hawke was measured and thorough in caring for his equipment, it wasn't long before he finished. He built a small, languid fire in the hearth to ward off the slight evening chill, and passed the rest of the time waiting for Anders to finish in the bathroom loosening up his muscles with pushups and stomach crunches. The watery light of the gibbous moon streaming in through the window met the warm glow of the fire midway, neither strong enough to overpower the other.

**ασυνέχεια**

Once Anders was clean, they switched places; Hawke took his bath while Anders toweled himself dry, brushed his hair and tied it back with a strip of leather. He tried and failed to convince himself that the faint whiff of Isabela's perfume and an unfamiliar masculine scent he picked up from the bedclothes were his imagination. Making a mental note to ask the pirate about it with appropriate amounts of humour and annoyance, Anders stripped the bedclothes and exchanged them for fresh ones. He wandered about the room for a while, straightening and tidying various things.

Once he was content with the condition of the room, Anders lounged on the thick carpet before the fire, warming himself up. From the bathing chamber came the soft splashing noises of Hawke washing his hair.

For the first time in what felt like quite a while, Anders was clean and fresh. His skin felt blissfully smooth and soft, his hair free of grit and sweat. He had put on another pair of Hawke's white cotton shorts, because he liked how they smelled, and because the longer he wore them the more it seemed like the warrior's scent was imparted onto his own skin. Wearing Hawke's clothes made Anders feel closer to his lover, and right now he wanted nothing more.

In any case, the majority of his own clothes, of which there were few, were dirty and lay in the hamper waiting to be laundered. A few more items he had left in his clinic in Darktown.

Hawke hadn't spoken for some time, occupied with lifting the accumulated grime, sweat, and blood from his skin that was the inevitable result of several days of hard fighting.

The thoughts turned over in Anders's mind, gathering traces of worry and anxiety. He hadn't been to his clinic in some time, even before all the chaos that had erupted in the past few days. He had been neglecting his patients, not to mention his cause. Hawke was the most important thing in his life, but that didn't mean other things weren't important.

Especially now that Hawke was at last safe from the wyrd, Justice positively writhed inside him, demanding that they return to the fight. Almost involuntarily, Anders clenched his fists, staring into the fire.

_One night of rest,_ he said adamantly to himself. _I have lost enough time already, but I have been through so much. As has Justice – both of us have been pushed to our limits._

_One night with Michael – and then I shall return to work. I can spare no more than that, nor will I._

He repeated this firmly to himself, over and over, unyielding in his resolve. Eventually, finally, Anders felt the spirit's burning passion begin to reluctantly subside.

He thought back to that long, terrible ordeal in the Fade, during which Hawke had beaten and raped Justice in his body. Within him, Justice squirmed uncomfortably at the memory – particularly of how much he had enjoyed what Hawke had done to him. But here in the physical world, the boundary between Anders and Justice was virtually nonexistent. Which half of his identity was the source for which emotions? There was no way to know. Anders knew he had enjoyed the experience a lot more than Justice had, although in actual fact "enjoy" was far from the correct word. It had been a traumatic experience for both of them, and any joy Anders (and by proxy, Justice) had taken from it had been of a kind tinged with anguish and despair, a kind of joy neither wanted ever to experience again despite its sweetness.

Presently, Anders's mind wandered away from dark thoughts. In the end, everything had turned out miraculously alright, much better than Anders had had any reasonable hope of expecting. If Hawke raping him in the Fade while possessed by a malevolent, toxic creature had been a painful experience, at least it hadn't instilled in him a deep-seated fear that would have prevented Anders ever being intimate with his lover again. He had known more than one unfortunate mage in the Fereldan Circle, raped by templars and afterward prone to panicky violence whenever they were touched – even gently by a friend.

He and Hawke were both extraordinarily lucky, Anders reflected. If anything, their love for one another had deepened since Leandra's death. Anders had never felt more confident in their relationship, never more determined to protect the warrior from whoever or whatever tried to damage him. Hawke's presence in his life was like a warm, constant glow from within, a potent and unshakeable faith that gave him an inexhaustible well of strength with which to fight for what he believed.

_Faith_...

"Michael," Anders said.

In the bathing chamber, water shifted around the stone tub as Hawke stirred. "What?"

"The spirit," Anders said slowly, uncertain how to proceed, or even how to articulate the question in his mind. "Your spirit, I mean. Faith."

Hawke was silent for a moment. Then he said, "What about it?"

"Can you... feel it at all?" Anders asked.

"Yes," Hawke replied. "But I don't think it's quite the same way you feel Justice. I don't know, though. I mean... _you're_ the mage. The idea that _I_ would be host to a spirit of any kind... before all this happened, I would have called it insane. This is all very new."

"Scary?"

"A little," Hawke admitted. "So far it's been quiet. Little things. My sight, my hearing and my nose are all a lot more acute. I can sense magic, in a far-off way. I feel..."

He paused. Anders waited, curious but patient.

"Warm," Hawke said eventually. "Confident. Safe."

"I'm glad to hear that," Anders said. "I was worried you might have trouble adjusting to having another consciousness inside your head. I know I did, at first." And sometimes still, he added silently.

"If anything changes," Hawke said, "you'll be the first to know. Now – I answered your question, Anders, so you answer one of mine."

"Alright," Anders said equitably. "What is it?"

"Am I going to have to find some rope?" Hawke asked. "Or are you going come for me like a good boy?"

Anders smiled, feeling a pleasing tingle of anticipation in his loins at Hawke's words. "Save the rope for another night, love. I'll behave."

Hawke didn't say anything for a moment. Then came a slosh of shifting water as he yanked the plug free of the bathtub's drain.

"You know, I'm almost disappointed," came Hawke's voice over the gurgle of water sluicing down the drain, and Anders laughed.

**ασυνέχεια**

A few minutes later, Hawke entered the bedroom, vigorously rubbing a towel over his head to dry his hair. Despite his wit, Anders's question had gotten him thinking about things he was less inclined to banter about.

Hawke hung up the towel, having gotten his hair as dry as it would get by that means – which was to say, it was still somewhat damp and liberally tousled. He put on a pair of clean shorts and a light, sleeveless undershirt from the wardrobe, rolled his shoulders around to work out a kink, and wandered over to the window. He looked at the moon for a moment, and then turned to look at Anders. The mage winked invitingly, and Hawke loped over to join him.

With a groan of relief, Hawke flopped down on the carpet next to Anders, supporting himself with his hands on the floor behind him. He leaned his head against the mage's shoulder and took a deep breath.

"Anders," Hawke said. "Have I ever..."

His voice trailed off.

"What, love?"

Hawke's voice was so quiet that Anders barely heard him. "Have I ever treated you badly?"

"What?" Anders was appalled. "Michael, you can't be serious. It wasn't _you_. That thing was-"

"No," Hawke interrupted him. "Before the wyrd."

Anders opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. After a moment he said "I don't understand."

"Have I ever..." Hawke grunted his frustration at his inability to articulate his thoughts. "Made you uncomfortable? Demeaned you, belittled you at all? Frightened you, in a bad way? Forced you to do something you didn't want to do, sexually or otherwise?"

Anders instinctively made to answer in the negative, but in a deeper part of his mind – where there was less of him and more of Justice, where he was honest with himself – the answer was yes. He sensed that such an admission would hurt Hawke terribly, but he also knew that lying would be little better. What to say?

"Sometimes," Anders said eventually. "Small things, here and there, for which I forgave you long ago." That was the truth. "I love you, Michael, and I intend never to leave you, no matter what may happen. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," Hawke answered. Still, he sighed and said nothing else. His warmth at Anders's side, the gentle weight of his head on the Anders's shoulder, induced feelings of comfort and security in the mage. He wished there was a way to make Hawke feel what he felt at that moment.

"You mustn't beat yourself up about things like that," Anders said, groping around for a way to make Hawke feel better. "The wyrd has been influencing you unconsciously since before the Deep Roads. It's pushed you towards – certain behaviours, I suppose, or-"

"Anders," Hawke interrupted with a note of pleading in his voice. "If I've mistreated you, don't blame it on the wyrd. It was only after Que-" He stopped. "After my mother died – that its influence really became a problem. Everything before that was all me. Most of what came _after_ that was me, too. It's who I am, who I've always been. Now... I don't know. Maybe I'll change, but..."

_Probably not_, he left unvoiced.

Anders nodded his understanding. "I wouldn't have you any other way, love," he said softly.

Hawke turned towards him and nuzzled into Anders's neck affectionately. "I don't know what I did to deserve a man like you, Anders."

"Funny," Anders said with a small smile, reaching up to bury his fingers in Hawke's hair. "I could say the same thing about you."

Hawke nipped at the skin of the Anders's collarbone, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the mage. His mouth traveled up Anders's neck to his jaw, and their mouths joined in a hungry kiss. Hawke shifted on his hands to get a better angle, pushing his tongue into Anders's mouth as his desire ignited. Anders let out a quiet moan of enjoyment, spurring Hawke to kiss him still more deeply. His left hand traced up Anders's spine, fingers counting the ridges of his lover's vertebrae.

Hawke broke the kiss and pushed himself onto his knees, straddling Anders's leg. He held the mage's head in his hands, gazing down with loving desire, careful not to injure with his claws. He felt Anders's hands sliding up over the planes of his intercostal muscles as their lips reconnected. Tiny sparks of electricity danced between Anders's fingers, sending pleasant tingling shivers into Hawke's chest and raising goosebumps all over his body. While their tongues battled playfully for control, Hawke trailed the backs of one set of claws over Anders's jaw. The fine grit of stubble produced a novel, pleasing sensation against his claws. They seemed to be extraordinarily sensitive – wherever his claws were in contact with Anders's skin, Hawke could feel the rhythmic beat of his lover's heart.

As soon as he realized just what it was he was feeling, Hawke was overwhelmed by the intoxicating force of his desire. He pushed Anders down onto the floor with a growl, looming over him and kissing him hungrily. Anders's short gasp of surprise was lost in a groan as he was forced to lie flat on his back with Hawke on top of him. When the claws of one hand dug into Anders's shoulder, Hawke felt his lover's pulse jump noticeably at the mild sting. Anders moved his hands from Hawke's ribs around to his back, squeezing the bunched muscles of his shoulders eagerly.

Hawke's other hand crawled up Anders's flank, wanting to tickle the mage, but his faculty of reason was still strong enough to hold him back. Pricking the skin of Anders's shoulder was one thing; slashing his ribs open was quite another. A pang of regret shot through him.

Anders, however, was keenly attuned to his lover's moods, especially when they were communicating as they were now – with touch rather than voice. He felt Hawke hesitate, and a moment later he broke their kiss.

"What's the matter, love?" Anders whispered.

Hawke met his gaze evenly and took a few breaths before answering. He reached up to stroke Anders's face. "I want to... touch you, in so many ways. I don't hate these-" he spread his claws between them to indicate what he meant "nearly as much as I thought I would, and I'm already kind of starting to get used to them, but..."

Hawke sat back on his haunches, flexing his fingers in frustration. "I want to tickle you," he admitted. "But I think I would end up _lacerating_ you instead."

"Try it," Anders urged with a gleam in his eyes. "Be careful. I'll tell you if you're being too rough."

Hawke eyed him, and Anders smiled encouragingly. Hawke returned a smirk and leaned forward, creeping his fingertips up Anders's ribs, dancing the tips of his claws a bare millimeter above the mage's skin. Anders squirmed beneath him, giggling, and with a groan Hawke bent down to take a hardened nipple into his mouth. He teased the ring pierced through it with his tongue as he kept up his tickling. Anders gasped and shuddered in his arms with involuntary laughter, the mirthful noises tinged with an erotic whine.

"Michael," he panted. "_Nnnh_ – Michael..."

But he didn't ask Hawke to stop. The warrior growled playfully and shifted his lips to the other nipple, strong arms easily keeping Anders's struggling under control as he tantalized his lover's armpits with his thumb claws. He was getting very good at trailing the tips of his claws along Anders's skin with enough pressure to tease, but not quite enough to cut. Proud of himself, Hawke got a little rougher, biting down on Anders's nipple and digging his claws in a little harder, dancing right on the edge of breaking skin.

Struck by a sudden urge, Hawke gripped Anders by the sides of his chest and licked a long trail from his right nipple towards his armpit. He inhaled deeply, not really expecting much other than the scent of soap but still enjoying it immensely. He buried his face in Anders's armpit, teasing the tuft of hair that grew there with his nose and lips.

"Okay!" Anders yelped. "Okay, Michael! Stop, please."

Hawke grunted in annoyance but acquiesced, brushing his mouth up over Anders's shoulder and then to his lips. Planting his hands on the floor to either side of his lover's head, Hawke kissed him thoroughly, intensely aroused by the foreplay and more determined than ever to give Anders a positively mind-blowing orgasm.

He pulled away slightly, catching his teeth around Anders's lower lip, staring into the mage's eyes as he sucked on it. Anders gazed back, his eyes half-lidded with desire, panting for breath. Hawke smirked at him, released his lip and bent down to nip at the skin of his throat. At the same time he brought one hand down to fondle Anders's cock through his shorts, already erect and creating a significant bulge in the fabric. Hawke glanced down as Anders let out a small moan before silencing it with a brief kiss.

"Wearing my smalls again?" Hawke said huskily against Anders's lips. Anders smiled guiltily. "I like that."

"Yeah?" Anders said breathlessly.

Hawke trailed the back of a claw up Anders's abdomen and over his chest. "I like the idea of you smelling like me. Like you're mine." He grazed his teeth over his lover's left shoulder. "It's sexy."

Hawke grabbed Anders's wrist and forced his arm above his head to expose his armpit, the opposite one this time, and buried his face in it. Anders put up a giggling half-hearted struggle as Hawke sucked briefly on the axilla before running his tongue up the underside of the mage's arm. His mouth went to Anders's ear, tongue sliding around inside the shell, and he whispered, "I am going to suck the Fade right out of you."

Anders's breath caught in his throat at the words. He watched as Hawke straightened and shifted himself downwards, getting into a better position. Clawed hands crawled up his thighs and hooked into the waist of his shorts, tugging them down to his knees in a smooth motion. Freed from its restraint, Anders's cock jumped upwards, flinging a pearly strand of pre-ejaculate onto his abdomen. Clearly, their frolicking had excited him as much as it had Hawke.

"Yeah," Hawke muttered lustily. He bent down to lick slowly and thoroughly up the joint between Anders's thigh and his groin. Anders bit his lip as Hawke's beard bristled against his erect cock. The warrior gripped him by his hips, claws resting against the skin of his waist and thighs, before moving over to repeat his action on the other side. Anders lifted his hands and rested them on Hawke's shoulders, rubbing his lover's skin with gentle affection.

Hawke looked up into Anders's eyes as he moved down to flick his tongue around underneath the mage's balls. He circled the sac gently a few times until Anders made an impatient whine. Hawke grunted and pounced forward, licking up the length of Anders's shaft once, then returning to the base and doing it again, and again. The third time he slipped his tongue along the ridge of the glans, eyes locked on Anders's with a teasing grin.

"Come _on_, Michael," Anders groaned. "Stop fooling around!"

Hawke leaned down to plant a gentle kiss on his lover's navel. "Say 'please,'" he murmured.

Anders rolled his eyes. "_Please_."

"Like you mean it."

"Maker damn you and your teasing!" Anders exclaimed. "Please, please suck my cock, Michael, or so help me I'll fatally electrocute you!"

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Ooh... wouldn't want that. I'd better get to it, then." Without another word he took Anders's length into his mouth and went at it with enthusiasm.

Anders groaned his relief, hands sliding down Hawke's biceps and inducing a powerful electrical current between them. Taken by surprise, Hawke tensed, growling around the stiff cock in his mouth. It was as if Anders held a twisting rope of fire between his hands, one that crossed from one of Hawke's shoulders through his chest to the other. The sensation was at once potently sexual and a little frightening in its intensity. His heartbeat, already quickened by lust, accelerated with a surge of adrenaline. The rush was just shy of unbearable, and it spurred Hawke to increase the rhythm of his lips and tongue on Anders's cock accordingly.

"Michael," Anders gasped as he cut off his current, arching his back. "Oh... _Michael_." Unconsciously, he started to thrust with his hips, trying to push his cock deeper into Hawke's mouth.

Hawke responded by holding Anders's hips against the carpet with his hands, preventing the mage from moving. He drew his lips up Anders's shaft with what he knew would be maddening slowness, working it with his tongue all the way up and grinning wickedly at his lover's keening moan.

"Faster," Anders said, panting for breath. "Please, Michael."

The raw need in his voice was enough to dissuade Hawke from snarking again. He popped Anders's cock out of his mouth and spat on it, and then spread his saliva around with his tongue. Finally, he obliged his lover by taking him in again, bobbing up and down with ease thanks to the extra lubrication.

"Oh, _Maker_." Anders rolled his head around, eyes closed in bliss. "Like that. Just like that. Ohhh... _yeah_."

Hawke didn't usually like doing this – he much preferred to be on the other end of oral sex – but the pleasure it gave his lover was more than enough to overcome his reluctance. Anders did this for him often enough, after all, and it made him feel incredible. Hawke wanted his lover to feel that same euphoric release. He kept at it for several minutes, enjoying the sounds Anders made and the musky smell of his groin, even beginning to relish the salty taste of his fluids.

At one point, Anders rested a pleasure-weakened hand on Hawke's head, burying his fingers in the warrior's hair. Hawke eyed him mischievously, and on his next downward motion, he went further than he had before, all the way to the base of Anders's cock. The freshly bathed scent of his lover's pubic hair filled his nose. He swallowed, tightening his throat around the shaft.

Anders let out a strangled groaning noise that sent excited shivers up and down Hawke's entire body. The sound was so exquisitely erotic that it made pulled a lusty groan of his own from his throat. He pulled off of Anders's cock and replaced his mouth with a fist, stroking the mage in a steady beat.

"Make that fucking sound again," Hawke demanded.

Anders smiled at him through the haze of his pleasure. "I will if... you give me some help," panted. Hawke grinned, never breaking eye contact as he repeated his earlier action, taking Anders's cock into the depth of his throat and sucking on it hard. He was rewarded with another pitchy groan, so he did it a few more times.

The third or fourth time he did it, Anders seemed to muster enough strength to spark another powerful current, this time from the top of Hawke's head to his left shoulder. Hawke growled his enjoyment of the electric force sizzling through him, spiraling out streamers of delightful sensation through his body. His hands clenched on Anders's hips, accidentally breaking the mage's skin in a few places, but the pain only seemed to further inflame Anders's passion.

"M-Michael," Anders whimpered. "I can't... hold it in much longer."

Hawke pulled off his cock and started pumping it with his hand. "Good," he said. "That was the point of this, yes?"

"Oh, fuck," Anders moaned. "Oh, _fuck_..." He tensed, fingers trembling.

"Let it go, mage," Hawke growled, fist working rapidly up and down on Anders's cock. "Let it all go for me. Come on... let me see you shoot. See how high you can get it."

Anders cried out and his cock pulsed in Hawke's hand, erupting a moment later. Hawke watched his face intently, wanting to see the bliss on Anders's face. He opened his mouth to catch the first jet of hot semen on his tongue.

"_There_ we go," Hawke urged. "Yeah. Shoot it for me, mage." He licked the head of Anders's cock with relish and kept up his powerful stroke as his lover released another several copious spurts, hips bucking wildly, gasping and groaning all the while. Seed splattered all over his chest and up to his neck.

"Oooh... good boy," Hawke murmured appreciatively. "Good _boy_. Look at that big beautiful load, all over you. See? Isn't this fun? Don't you think I should do this more often? Yeah, so do I."

Anders's latest moan became a breathy chuckle as his shuddering climax began to subside. Hawke slowed the pace of his stroke and licked his lover's cock a few more times to collect the spunk slipping down the shaft. Then he crawled up Anders's body, running his tongue along the warm trails of come to gather every last drop, rolling it around on his tongue. He ended up at Anders's neck and jaw, finally bracing himself to either side of his lover's head to kiss him deeply, sharing the musky taste. What he didn't share, he swallowed, surprising himself by how much the erotic act turned him on.

Breaking the kiss, Hawke traveled with his mouth up Anders's face, planting light feathery kisses here and there. He nosed around the mage's forehead, smoothing back his hair.

"Did you like that?" Hawke whispered, lips brushing against Anders's skin as he spoke.

"Yes," Anders said hoarsely. "You were amazing. Thank you, Michael." He smiled contentedly up at Hawke, bringing one hand up and around to slide over his lover's back.

"Now I'm going to want you to do that again in just a little bit," Hawke said. "So don't get too comfortable."

Anders rubbed his forehead in weary amusement. "Michael... you know I can never get enough of you. We can go all night if you want."

"Excellent," Hawke said. "That is _exactly_ what I want."

"Aren't you _tired_?" Anders asked.

"Yes," Hawke said. He stroked Anders's cheek affectionately with the back of one claw. "But I've never loved you more powerfully than I do right now, and if I can make you feel even half as good as you make me feel, that's worth a late start to my day tomorrow and a lot more besides."

"Oh, Michael." Anders kissed him. "I love you too."

Hawke pushed himself up off of Anders and maneuvered himself backwards to sit against the bed. He reached out to get his fingers around Anders's wrist, trying to pull him over. "C'mere."

Anders rolled over and raised himself to his knees, pausing just long enough to tug his shorts back up around his waist before crawling over to join Hawke against the bed. He straddled the warrior's lap, coming to rest against him with his hands on Hawke's chest. Hawke grabbed Anders's butt and leaned forward to sniff around his lover's armpit, tongue darting out to lap up a few spots of come he'd missed. Smiling, Anders slid his fingers into Hawke's undershirt and rubbed his hand over the smooth, solid curve of shoulder muscle.

"My proud, fiery Hawke," Anders said. He leaned his head down to rest his cheek against Hawke's right shoulder, eyes drifting closed. "How are you always so warm? You're like a furnace."

"Maybe you're just always cool," Hawke replied with his lips against Anders's neck, "and I feel warm by comparison."

"Mmm," Anders murmured.

"Don't go to sleep yet," Hawke said. "I still want to another go, remember." He squeezed Anders's butt through his shorts.

Anders laughed. "In a little bit, yes. If I start to snore, prick me with your claws."

They passed some time in contented silence, Anders enjoying Hawke's warmth and Hawke enjoying Anders's coolness. Hawke continued running his fingers over every inch of Anders's body that he could reach, feeling drunk on the bliss of being healthy and safe and utterly in control of his own self, close to the man he loved.

An idea was brewing in Hawke's mind, one that his instinct was to shy away from and aggressively deny. No matter how hard he tried to put it out of his mind as stupid and dangerous, it kept creeping up on him. He was uncomfortable even considering the notion, but the more he did the more Hawke wondered if it might not be such a bad thing. If there was anyone he could make it work with, it was Anders. But how to pose the question to his lover? That itself presented a whole new set of problems, though they were mostly to do with his own lack of ability to express himself.

After a while, padding footsteps sounded on the mezzanine outside and Reaver entered the room with a lamb bone in his mouth. Hawke rolled his head around lazily to watch as the dog set down his bone and proceeded to butt his head up against Anders's side, trying to push him off of the warrior.

Anders smiled. "Stop it, Reaver. It's my turn to be with him right now. Go away."

Reaver promptly bared his teeth in a snarl and growled. Anders jumped a little in surprise, and Hawke laughed.

"Down, boy," he said. Reaver looked at him and whined sadly. "Oh, don't give me that. I'll have lots of time to play with you tomorrow."

Reaver snorted his grudging agreement, provoking another smile from Anders. The dog picked up his bone and went to curl up in front of the fire. Anders turned back to Hawke, running his fingers through his lover's beard.

"Love, can we get a cat?"

Hawke raised an eyebrow at him. "A cat? You really need a cat, Anders?"

"Yes. You have your big scary war dog, why can't I have a fuzzy little kitty?" He thrust out his lower lip in an adorable pout.

Hawke smiled and rolled his eyes. "Maker! Not the pout. Oh, _alright_, you great fool, so long as _you_ feed it and take care of it."

"Of course," Anders said comfortably. "I will make a cat person out of you yet, Michael Hawke."

"Whatever, mage." Hawke put an end to any possibility of a comeback by pulling Anders into a greedy kiss. "If Reaver eats it," he added in between kisses, "you're not allowed to complain."

Anders's answer, if he gave one, was lost in a pleased moan. His passion reignited by Hawke's insistent mouth, he started to explore his lover's body in earnest. The mage's questing hands reached Hawke's waist and back up, under the edge his undershirt, sliding over the ripples and planes of his muscular chest. Hawke allowed Anders to break their kiss long enough to help draw his undershirt over his head; the moment it was tossed aside, he grabbed Anders's head and claimed his mouth once again.

They kept on in this manner for several minutes, Anders caressing Hawke's chest and rutting against him as he grew increasingly excited and Hawke growling his approval. He spent some time kissing and sucking on Anders's neck, breathing in his scent, leaving a number of hickeys and bite marks. His cock was rock hard in his shorts, and the firmness pressing against it let him know that Anders was equally aroused by their renewed play. Every time Anders shifted his hips against Hawke's lap, their cocks rubbed together through their shorts, and Hawke let out a muffled grunt of pleasure.

Finally he could wait no longer. He knew what Anders was expecting, and he wanted very powerfully just to proceed as they usually did in concord with those expectations. But Hawke had changed in many subtle ways since his mother's death, and he knew almost instinctively that his idea would work, and bring them closer. He wanted nothing more, but actually saying the words was as hard as he had thought it would be.

"Anders," Hawke said. "I..."

His voice caught. Inwardly cursing at how uncertain he knew he sounded, Hawke tried again. "I want..."

"Yes?" Anders whispered back. "What, love?"

Now or never. "I want you... to fuck me," Hawke breathed.

Anders was startled. "You... really? Michael, are you sure?"

Hawke took a shuddering breath and nodded. "Yes."

Anders sat back a little, supporting himself with his knees on either side of his lover's thighs. He ran a finger down through the tuft of hair that grew between Hawke's pectoral muscles. "Of course, I'd love to if you're willing. I've never even... I mean, you've always been on top. It's always felt so... natural. Have you ever...?"

"Twice." Hawke swallowed around a nervous lump that had abruptly formed in his throat. "The first time... I ever had sex with anyone, I was on the bottom. It was with my first boyfriend – Luke, I think I mentioned him once..."

His voice trailed off. Anders nodded, without, to Hawke's intense relief, bringing up the circumstances under which he had mentioned Luke. No sense stirring up the darkness behind them when the proverbial waters ahead weren't yet quite clear.

"It was bad," the warrior muttered. "He basically – raped me. I mean, I was into it a first, because I was really into him, but then he... he..." Hawke's face twisted with remembered pain. "He basically treated me like... like I treated you, a few times, you know. Recently." So much for not stirring up that darkness. "It turned me off bottoming pretty much for life. There was one other time a while after that, with a different guy, and it was... a bit better, but it still didn't feel right."

Anders was watching him steadily, sympathy and understanding etched in his features, and Hawke leaned forward to kiss him briefly, all but overwhelmed with love.

"This feels right," he finished, willing his voice not to break. "Anders, I want you... inside me. I want to feel you like you feel me."

Anders pulled him into another kiss, this one longer and deeper. Hawke responded instinctively, grabbing hold of Anders by his flanks and squeezing just hard enough not to cut with his claws. When their lips parted a moment later, Anders whispered, "Then you will, my love," and Hawke's heart skipped a beat – partly out of anticipation, but mostly out of nervousness.

Anders pushed himself to his feet, using Hawke's shoulders for support. As he did, Hawke got a grip on the bottom of his shorts and tugged them down, allowing the mage to step out of them. Anders reached down and helped Hawke to his feet, and while he took a seat on the bed, Hawke discarded his own shorts.

He turned around to see Anders watching him. Rumbling his pleasure at the sight of his naked lover, Hawke joined him on the bed, pushing Anders down onto his back and climbing on top of him. Both of them were hard, and Anders reached down to stroke their cocks together in a single beat. Hawke straightened on his knees, making soft noises of approval as he trailed the tips of his claws around Anders's chest.

"I think... I like this position," Hawke said. His heart was thudding so fast it was at once exhilarating and almost painful. "Me on top of you, just not actually... you know, on top."

Anders smiled. "Perfect."

He pushed himself backwards and twisted to get his legs on the bed, coming to rest on his back with his head on the pillow. As Hawke followed him, it occurred to him suddenly that they would need lubrication.

Anders seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "There's some oil in there somewhere, isn't there?" he asked, looking over at the small table and its shallow drawer beside the bed. He reached out to shift aside the candlestick on top of the table, searching.

"There should be," Hawke said, leaning over to open the drawer and rummaging through the miscellaneous items rattling around inside.

Oil definitely sounded like a good thing, Hawke mused. When he fucked Anders, he almost always just used his own saliva. Anders seemed to like it that way, and Hawke couldn't deny that he did too. The application never failed to fuel his lust, for one thing. But with their positions reversed, and Hawke so unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of anal sex, using an actual lubricant seemed like the safer and more reliable option. The thought let him begin to relax a little.

He found the small bottle and retrieved it from the drawer. Hawke settled back into his position, supporting himself on his knees to either side of Anders's thighs. He removed the bottle's stopper and made to pour some of the oil on his fingers, but then he stopped, looking at his claws. He glanced at Anders, seeing the mage watching him with an amused expression, and with a weak smile Hawke handed him the bottle.

Anders dipped his middle finger in the oil, coating it liberally, and set the bottle down on the bedside table. Hawke crawled a little further up his lover's body and then straightened, stroking his cock slowly and watching his lover. Anders traced his thumb down the joint between Hawke's groin and his left thigh, and then extended his reach farther, between the warrior's legs.

A moment later Hawke felt an exploratory, oil-slick finger sliding across his sensitive pucker. He tensed instinctively, but he made himself to relax. Anders looked up at him as if seeking permission.

"Go for it," Hawke said, leaning forward and bracing himself with the knuckles of one hand on the bed. He kept his other hand on his cock.

Anders massaged his tight opening a moment more and then, carefully, slipped a long finger into him. Hawke grunted, once at the initial intrusion and then again when Anders reached his maximum depth, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths. Anders's finger buried inside him felt bizarre, uncomfortably invasive. But he proceeded gently as he slid it out and back in again, several times. After a while the initial ache faded. Hawke kept up a slow stroking rhythm on his cock all the while, which helped.

Just when he thought he might have gotten used to the sensation, Hawke noticed a sly look in Anders's eyes. At that moment, the mage curled his finger to brush it against Hawke's prostate, releasing a spark of pleasurable magic at the same time.

Hawke moaned unrestrainedly, taken by surprise by the soft but potent tingle that spread throughout his gut. That had felt good, so _good_. And yet it carried the promise of so much more. Hawke felt a powerful urge to fist his cock rapidly and enhance that delicious, liquid warmth inside him, but he resisted it. He didn't want to come yet. It took some willpower, but he pulled his hand away from his cock. He was willing to wait.

Anders smiled Hawke's reaction and did it again.

"_Fuck_," Hawke groaned, hunching his shoulders, trying not to let the pleasure weaken his muscles. He watched Anders intently, his heart still racing but now from a building sense of anticipation.

Anders withdrew his hand from between Hawke's legs and, retrieving the bottle of oil, poured some more of the glistening liquid onto his fingers. He set the bottle down and reached out to slip into Hawke again, this time with two fingers. With his other hand he reached around to caress the muscular curve of Hawke's butt.

The extra girth of his lover's additional finger was just shy of painful. Hawke gritted his teeth, consciously trying to relax the muscles of his body that resisted Anders's intrusion. He wanted this to work, and he would do what was necessary to make that happen. Anders fingered him for another few moments before touching his spark of magic to Hawke's prostate again; when he did, the exquisite pleasure made the added discomfort all worth it.

Anders's cock was as hard as it had ever been, dripping pre-ejaculate onto his skin, matting down some of the fine blonde hairs that trailed from his navel down to his pubic region. It wasn't quite as long or as thick as Hawke's was, but it was big enough that it made the warrior nervous thinking about it sliding into him – nervous and yet intensely, eagerly excited.

He reminded himself that this was what he wanted, this intimacy he gave to Anders all the time but which he had never wanted in return. In hindsight, it seemed strange to Hawke that he had never before even considered reversing their roles.

Finally Anders pulled his fingers out of Hawke and picked up the bottle of oil. He tipped a generous dollop onto his cock, spreading it around with his already-slick fingers. His erection was soon glistening in the soft light of the fire from one side of the room and the moon from the other. Hawke watched Anders preparing himself, heart pounding, gaze traveling down the shaft and the delicate traceries of its veins.

"Ready?" Anders said softly, and Hawke nodded. Leaning on his knuckles, he carried his knees forward, aligning his butt with Anders's groin. He reached behind him to grab Andes by his cock. Anders's hands smoothed up and down Hawke's thighs, soothing him with light, cool sparkles of magic.

Hawke guided Anders's cock so its tip rested against his hole. Breathing steadily, ensuring he was as relaxed as he could be, Hawke sank backwards. He let out a long groan as Anders pushed into him that was mostly born of pain. In that moment, Hawke was very glad for the oil that made the passage of Anders's cock through his most intimate place so smooth, even as it produced an awful burn.

Unbidden, memories of the night his mother had died rose in Hawke's mind, and he realized with a new sickness in his heart just what his behaviour must have felt like for Anders.

He forced the thoughts away. It was past and gone. That didn't change the evil of what he had done, but this, right now, was the first step to making it right. He would deal with those thoughts later.

When Anders was finally buried as deep as he could go – much deeper than his finger had penetrated, and with a wider stretch – Hawke felt a jolt of unexpected pleasure rise through the core of his body. He let out a breathy grunt, eyes wide and locked on Anders's. He wanted to feel more of it, and since the only way to get more was to raise himself off of Anders's cock and sink back down, that was what Hawke did.

This time, both men made wordless noises of pleasure. Anders's mouth was slightly parted, tongue moistening his lips in eager anticipation. For Hawke, the stretch on the second inward penetration, rather than being uncomfortable, felt more like a gratification. And when he came to rest with his butt on Anders's thighs, the mage's cock fully lodged inside him, Hawke felt such a deep and subtle burst of pleasure that he knew his instinct had been correct.

"Michael," Anders said breathlessly. "You're amazing. Amazing. Keep going."

Hawke did as requested, raising himself again and sliding back down. He kept it up, a little faster and harder each time, and every thrust pushed him deeper into heady, erotic bliss.

"Good," Anders panted. "Ooh... so _good_, Michael... I can _feel_ you, all around me. So warm. Are you-?"

"Yes," Hawke groaned, gripping Anders's shoulders as he began to bounce hard, up and down on the mage's cock. "Fucking _yes!_"

He leaned down to plant a rough kiss on Anders's lips. Anders made a wordless groan of pleasure deep in his throat, his tongue battling with Hawke's and his hands exploring his lover's broad back.

Hawke had never imagined that another man's dick pumping in and out of him could feel this incredible. His only experiences of bottoming before now had been filled with pain, humiliation, rage, and only a few twinges of something better that hadn't even begun to make the rest worth it.

But this – the smooth, rigid pressure, the stretch that had at first been painful and was now almost unbearably pleasurable – this was something else entirely. Anders was inside him. The man he loved had physically entered his body. Once Hawke might have reacted to the idea with unease and distaste, but now he knew, finally, just how it had always felt for Anders. He felt nothing but ecstatic love. The idea that he regularly made Anders experience what he was experiencing now only made the pleasure that much more intoxicating.

Hawke's instinct was to get a solid grip on his cock and pump it hard until he came, and he had no doubt that doing so with Anders buried balls-deep inside him would be nothing short of amazing. He kept his hands where they were, gripping Anders's shoulders, because he wanted this to last more than a few minutes. Still, the urge to touch himself was difficult to resist.

Hawke contented himself with watching Anders's face. As pleasurable as the slide of hard cock in and out of him was, it looked to feel just as good for Anders. Hawke wasn't surprised; after all, he himself lived to feel that clench of tight, hot muscles around his cock when he rammed it into his lover as hard as he could. Anders, though, hadn't experienced sex from this angle at least since their relationship had begun four years previously. His face was a mask of bliss, and he was clearly enjoying the reversal of their usual roles as much as Hawke was.

Hawke straightened his torso, lacing his fingers together behind his head and arching his back as he slid his hips back and forth. It was deliciously easy to angle his motions so that the hard shaft thrusting in and out of his hole brushed repeatedly against his prostate. Every time the slippery rub of Anders's cock touched that spot, it sent a renewed burst of warm ecstasy washing through him. Hawke licked his lips, grunting with each burst, staring down at his lover through half-lidded eyes.

Anders groaned, aroused by the sight of the nude warrior riding him, the muscles of his chest and abdomen flexing with each fluid roll of his hips. His hands danced up Hawke's stomach, fingers fluttering over the ripples of muscle as they shifted beneath his skin.

"Michael – you're so _tight_," Anders gasped. "So tight and hot around me... oh, sweet Maker, _yes!_"

"Anders," Hawke said, reaching down to take one of Anders's hands and bringing it to his mouth. "Do some magic for me."

He took two of the mage's fingers into his mouth and sucked gently. With his claws resting against the back of Anders's hand, Hawke could feel his lover's heartbeat, pacing rapidly in near-perfect synchrony with his own. He closed his eyes, but a moment later they were forced wide open again as Anders's fingers twitched and electricity speared down through the core of his body. It felt like a column of whirling fire had ignited along his spine, branching out tendrils of delirious heat to his tongue, his hip, Anders's cock buried inside him, and his own cock – harder than it ever had been in his life, drooling pearly fluids all over the mage's stomach. Hawke cried out at the shock of such ecstasy, barely preventing himself from biting down hard on Anders's fingers.

It was almost too much to bear, and Hawke was simultaneously disappointed and relieved when Anders cut off his current. Despite the lack of magic, its warmth remained, leaving Hawke heady with bliss. He let out a long, low growl, reaching down to get a grip on Anders's flanks, grinding himself onto his lover's cock with all the strength that remained in his pleasure-wracked body. Each thrust rubbed Hawke's cock against the planes of Anders's stomach, sliding along in a slick of its own pre-ejaculate. The minor stimulation alone, coupled with the residual magic and Anders's cock pushing into him, was bringing him ever closer to climax.

Hawke felt awash in love, profoundly aware of the connections between himself and Anders – the metaphysical as well as literal. He even imagined the ecstatic magic had awakened the spirit inside him, for he could almost _feel_ it writhing inside him, basking in its own ethereal pleasure – pleasure at his belief, the power of his conviction, his faith in the _rightness_ of himself and Anders.

"Michael," Anders groaned beneath him as Hawke's mouth trailed dazedly along his jaw. "I... can't... last, I'm going to-"

"Do it," Hawke breathed in his ear. "Come for me. Come hard. Fill me up."

Anders shuddered and clutched at Hawke's shoulders, electricity sparking weakly between his fingers. "_Michael_..."

Hawke could only yell inarticulately in response, face buried in the hollow of Anders's shoulder, as his balls clenched and a powerful orgasm began to rip through him. At that same moment Anders cried his name, clenching his fingers against Hawke's shoulders, thrusting his hips with wild abandon and his cock pulsing out his release. Hawke felt it within him every time Anders burst, and it seemed like each new flood shoved another messy load of spunk from his own cock, sandwiched between their bodies.

After an indeterminate period of noisy, shuddering ecstasy, the tides of their shared orgasm began to ebb, and Hawke collapsed on top of his lover. Both of them were heaving for breath, worn out but thoroughly satisfied. Floating in hazy bliss, Hawke continued to rock his hips back and forth a little, sending shivers up his spine and provoking amusing little whines from Anders. His residual motions felt delightfully slick, both from Anders's release into his gut and his own, the sticky warmth of which Hawke could feel splattered liberally between them.

Neither wanted to wait to catch their breath before they could share their affection for one another, and so their kisses were clumsy and brief, but earnest. Hawke ran his claws through Anders's hair, combing it back from his face, kissing his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, everywhere his lips could reach. Anders smiled wearily up at him, responding eagerly once Hawke's wandering mouth finally found his lips again.

"Incredible," Anders said idly when their lips eventually parted long enough for him to speak. "When you started to come... I could feel it inside you. I could feel you pulsing around my dick. Before that I'd thought I could hold on a few moments longer... but no. That set me off." He grinned ruefully.

"Savour it," Hawke replied with a smirk. "I probably won't let you do this again."

Anders laughed at him. "I thought you might say that. It's fine with me, Michael. I'm glad you... I'm glad _we_ did this. Like you said – it felt right. Like... like..."

"Closure?" Hawke suggested with his lips against Anders's ear.

"Something," Anders murmured.

Hawke would have been all too happy to fall asleep as they were, him lying on top of his lover with the copious evidence of their passion coating both of them. However, Anders raised some inevitable and quite legitimate concerns about cleanliness, not only of their bodies but also of their bed. After a time spent basking in his post-orgasmic high, Hawke thus forced himself to get up, find a relatively clean towel, and mop up the two of them as best he could.

"Don't ever let Bodahn wash this," he said to Anders as he draped the soiled towel over the back of the desk chair. "I'm going to want to smell it whenever I'm horny and you're not around."

"Michael," Anders said. "That's kind of gross."

"Shut up, mage. You do it too."

Anders snorted and gave him an amused glance, but pointedly didn't deny Hawke's claim. The warrior soon rejoined him in the bed, first extinguishing all but one of the candles lighting the room.

From before the fireplace, Reaver let out a plaintive whine, apparently in response to Hawke's comment. Hawke and Anders looked over at the dog in surprise; both had thought he was asleep.

"Reaver," Hawke said suspiciously. "How long have you been awake?"

Reaver raised his head and gave Hawke a dry look.

"Did your dog... _listen_ to us have sex?" Anders asked. "All that time, he was awake?"

Hawke shrugged. "He's got to get his kicks somehow, I suppose. Not many lady Mabari in Kirkwall. None, actually, that I know of."

"But... but..." Anders seemed scandalized. "That's..."

"What?" Hawke snarked. "He's a _dog_, Anders. And he's straight, as far as I know. I love him, but strictly as a friend. You don't need to worry about competition for my attention, or anything."

"That is _so_ not what I meant," Anders said.

"Uh huh." Hawke wriggled under the coverlet beside him. "Shove over, would you? And get under the blanket, for Andraste's sake. And blow out that candle."

Anders obliged him, sliding under the covers before leaning over to extinguish the candle on the bedside table. Though the moon had drifted in the sky over the last hour and much of its light was cut off by the edge of the window, it remained the brightest illumination in the room: the fire had sunk into a subdued pile of embers.

Under the blanket, Hawke trailed a claw along Anders's side, "listening" to his lover's heartbeat through the vibrations he picked up. Anders's pulse had relaxed quite a bit in the last few minutes, as he had caught his breath and come down from his sexual rush.

Hawke pulled his mage close and nuzzled into his neck. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you," Anders whispered back. Satisfied, at peace, Hawke allowed his conscious mind to drift away into the dark.

**ασυνέχεια**

When Hawke awoke the next morning, he was alone in bed.

Disappointed, Hawke rolled over into the space Anders had occupied the night before and inhaled. The pillow and sheets were still rich with the scent of winter and lightning.

The hearth was cold. Sunlight streamed into the room through the window; by its angle and intensity, it seemed to be around midmorning. The chill of the previous night had melted away in the glare of the Justinian sun.

Reaver was in the room, though the condition of the lamb bone he was gnawing on indicated that he had left the room at some point, abandoned his first one and returned with another. Where did he keep getting all those bones? Hawke wondered. There hadn't even been one anywhere in the estate that he knew of the last time he had been here and in control of his own mind, several nights previously. Yet Reaver had somehow procured at least two.

Seeing that his master was awake, the hound stood up and padded around the bed to Hawke's side, whining inquisitively. Hawke smiled, laying out his hand for Reaver to lick. He looked up and out the window, squinting into the brightness of the sun, thinking.

**Ω**


	30. Different Paths

**α**

"Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage."

—_Ray Bradbury_

"Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but deceitful are the kisses of an enemy."

—_Proverbs 27:6_

[instrumental]

—_Nine Inch Nails "999,999"_

**Take It Out On Me**

"**Different Paths"**

_The mages must be free. My mission has been put on hold for too long._

I want to be with Hawke.

_Hawke is a distraction. He doesn't care about our plight._

Yes he does. Besides, I told him I wouldn't leave him and I don't want to. He'd kill me if I tried.

_Exactly. He is dangerous and has almost gotten me killed or worse already, countless times._

I don't care about that.

_I should. I should leave Hawke while he's healthy and sane and he might let me. Better to do it cleanly._

He'll still kill me.

_I could go in the night, leave a note. Get far enough away from him that he'll never find me. I should do it now, while I'm strong enough._

I will never be strong enough.

_The mages must be free._

**ασυνέχεια**

_27 Justinian, 9:35 Dragon_

There were significantly fewer templars in the Gallows when Cullen returned there after leaving the Hawke estate. From what he had been able to garner from Knight-Lieutenant Karras's blustery invective, much of the veiled criticism of which seemed to be directed at Cullen himself, a full accounting of the casualties of the past few days had yet to be completed. Cullen found himself wondering whether the Templar Order had lost more members to blood mages and demons or to desertion. At least those who had defected to aid the city guard were still alive, capable of preventing this kind of tragedy in the future. If they would even have the opportunity to try.

There were also quite a few more Tranquil walking the halls of the Gallows than Cullen remembered. They stepped out of his way in deference to his rank, but the templar avoided looking at them all the same. He didn't want to look into the eyes of the ones he recognized – those who had once been Harrowed mages, reedy-voiced scholars, healers – and see nothing looking back at him.

He reached the offices of the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter and came to a halt. Orsino's door was open, but the elven mage was elsewhere. Meredith's door was closed. Cullen reached out and knocked on it with a metal-clad fist.

"Enter," said a curt voice within. He opened the door and stepped inside.

"Cullen." Meredith snapped her pen down on her desk and folded her hands briskly. "At last. Report."

Cullen paused in the process of closing the door to behind him. He regarded the Knight-Commander carefully for a moment; he moved forward to stand before her desk, squaring his shoulders and placing his hands behind his back. He left the door open.

"Commander," Cullen said evenly. "The situation at the estate of Champion Hawke has been resolved. The demon is dead and the threat it presented to the city neutralized. Serah Hawke was... injured in the battle, but he will recover."

It wasn't as if he was lying.

"And the enchanter?" Meredith said in a clipped voice.

"Dead, Commander," Cullen said neutrally. The pain that twisted in his chest found expression neither through his voice nor on his face. It was hardly a difficult thing, here in Meredith's office; she carried a chilling presence about her wherever she went that made the suppression of his emotions a simple matter.

Meredith looked at him sharply. Redness glinted in her eyes; Cullen convinced himself he'd imagined it. "Indeed? How did she die?

"Enchanter Wynne gave her life to save the Champion's."

The Knight-Commander seemed to relax ever so slightly, but her eyes lost none of their hardness and never left Cullen's face. "I see. A worthy cause, indeed. Has she been seen to?"

Meredith's callousness irritated Cullen deeply, but he continued to give no sign as he answered. "I commended her to the Maker and her remains were consumed by the cleansing flame. I have instructed that her ashes be delivered to Cumberland for disposal."

Meredith nodded. "Good. The situation at the Gallows has improved, somewhat, since you've been away." Her face took on an expression of disgust. "The mages are contained for the moment, but of course Orsino threw another of his tantrums. I fear our control is slipping."

That was nothing new. Though her choice of words was interesting – "contained"? What could she mean by that? Meredith might believe that the mages quartered at the Circle summoned demons and practiced blood magic in their chambers, but Cullen took a view of the situation which he hoped was rather more moderate and realistic. Of course, it hardly mattered. Meredith was Knight-Commander, not he.

"What of the deserters, Commander?" Cullen asked carefully. "Knight-Lieutenant Karras seemed to believe-"

"Ser Karras is correct," Meredith interrupted. "Thrask and a number of other renegades remain at the Viscount's Keep with the city guard. I received a report just minutes ago that the Guard-Captain has returned to her post – presumably having returned from the Champion's estate, as you have – though what madness is going on over there, we cannot yet say..."

"Knight-Lieutenant Karras seemed to believe," Cullen repeated once Meredith had stopped talking, "that Thrask and the deserters were possessed, or under the influence of blood magic."

"That is far from impossible, given recent events," Meredith said. "Karras has been demanding that we march on the Keep and execute every traitorous member of the Order, among others. I am finding it difficult to come up with reasons to deny his request." No doubt. "What do you think, Cullen?"

Cullen's right eyebrow inched upwards ever so slightly. There were so many ways he could answer that question. He settled for, "I think there are other options we should try first. Sending an envoy, for instance."

Meredith snorted. "There is no need for that. They have already sent one here." She picked up a sheet of parchment from her desk and handed it to him.

Cullen took the parchment without a word and examined it. _We, members of the Kirkwall chapter of the Templar Order, whose names are recorded here..._

_...continue to recognize the dangers of magic, and swear to uphold our oaths: to protect the common people from these dangers; to aid mages in resisting the malevolent otherworldly influences which give rise to them; and should it be required, to put an end to the practice of blood magic and any abominations that may arise..._

_...do not intend to dissolve the institution of the Circle of Magi, nor do we endorse any stated or implied intent to do so by any party..._

_...demand the resignation of Knight-Commander Meredith and an immediate end to her abuses against the mages of Kirkwall..._

Etcetera, etcetera. It was all very reasonable. It sounded just like Thrask.

"I don't see how more diplomacy could possibly serve any useful purpose at this point," Meredith said dismissively. "They spout the same drivel Orsino and his ilk do regularly. It's getting quite tiresome, really. I am half convinced _he_ is the blood mage who has bent all their minds to this idiocy. It is a wonder he has not yet stormed off to join them."

Cullen begged to differ. If Orsino did anything of the sort, he would be openly declaring his apostasy. He wouldn't make it out of the Gallows courtyard. If the First Enchanter of Kirkwall's Circle of Magi was going to leave, it was much more likely that he would do so under the cover of darkness – but of course Meredith would be having his rooms watched.

As his eyes scanned the list of names recorded at the bottom of the parchment – a considerable number of them, almost all of which Cullen recognized – an errant thought swam to the front of his mind from where it had been circulating, almost innocently, in his subconscious.

"_You have a good heart, Cullen. Please... do not allow it to be spoiled by others' fear."_

Wise advice, Cullen thought. The last thing he wanted was for Wynne's faith in him to have been misplaced. If only he had her courage.

**ασυνέχεια**

_8 Solace, 9:35 Dragon_

"Feels strange, doesn't it?" Aveline commented as she sat down with her drink. Around their small, crowded table, the Hanged Man was as noisy and as suffused with various offensive odours as it had ever been. "From the look of this place, the way people are carrying on, you'd never know the city was all but torn apart by demons a fortnight ago."

"It's Lowtown, love," Donnic said, shooting her a smile over his cards. "Demons trashing the place are nothing new."

"Oh?" Aveline raised an eyebrow, accepting the slice of apple Varric passed her with a nod of thanks. "That many at once, even? Rioting, gang wars, blood mages rampaging in Hightown? Somehow I doubt even Kirkwall is accustomed to _that_ level of violence." She took a bite of apple.

"You'd be surprised," Varric said, eyeing the cards he held in one hand. "The... what do the mages call it? The Veil, the boundary between our world and the Fade – it's always been thin here. So Blondie says, and Wynne seemed to agree with him. Personally, I think that makes people crazier here than in other places."

"It will be thinner now." Fenris carefully selected one of the cards in his hand and placed it down on the table beside a run of others. Varric groaned and tossed his cards down dramatically; Donnic's mouth fell open. Aveline rolled her eyes.

"How do you know?" she asked. "Can you sense the Veil?"

"No," Fenris said, regarding her evenly as he collected the coins Donnic and Varric were shoving in his direction. "But I've picked up a few things here and there. People dying in large numbers, powerful magic, demons breaching the Veil – all these things weaken it further. Sometimes the damage is permanent... as it was at Marnus Pell."

Varric nodded slowly. "I've heard the stories about that place. Plagued by undead since the late Storm Age, so they say."

"I've seen Marnus Pell," Fenris said. "They aren't just stories."

"Does that mean more demons will come?" Donnic asked, gathering up the cards into the deck and starting to shuffle them. "Kirkwall's always been... pretty demon heavy. It's never been as bad in Starkhaven or Tantervale as it always has been here – so the older guardsmen say."

"I don't know," Fenris replied. "It may very well get worse. There are factors which can influence how easy it is for spirits to enter this world. Rogue mages, for instance."

"Worse would be bad," Aveline said. "And rogue mages – that's a problem that's been growing steadily for the last five years. Much as I dislike Meredith, she's not completely misguided."

"The templars at the Keep say she's crazy," Donnic commented as he began dealing cards, starting with himself and moving around the table to Fenris, Varric, and Aveline. "And not happy-harmless crazy. Scary-dangerous crazy."

"I've heard the same thing," Varric said. "Some of the rumours sound like things I would say, except I didn't start these rumours. She's paranoid, she talks to herself, she talks to her sword, her eyes glow red – normally I'd call it amateur crap, but I'm hearing it from multiple independent sources."

"Honestly," Donnic said, "at this point – I would be less surprised if the Knight-Commander somehow uses blood magic than if the First Enchanter did."

"That is implausible," Fenris said dryly. "Though there may very well be as many blood mages in the Circle as there are apostates in the city right now."

"There are less now than there were," Donnic pointed out. "Meredith cracked down during the invasion, remember?"

"Varric," Aveline said contemplatively, picking up her cards as Donnic dealt them to her. "Speaking of crazy and blood magic... how's Hawke?"

Of the four present, Varric was the only one who had spoken to the Champion of Kirkwall recently. He had journeyed out to the coast with Hawke, Anders, and Merrill the previous day, going "bandit hunting," as Hawke had called it.

"He's Hawke," Varric said, unhelpfully.

Aveline threw him a withering look. "Does he seem _different_ at all?"

Varric considered. "I'm going to assume that what you're actually asking is whether I've noticed any sign he's possessed."

"That's a start," Aveline said.

Fenris tossed a coin into the center of the table. Donnic and Aveline followed suit, and after a moment so did Varric.

"He's... calmer," Varric decided. "Quieter. A little less inclined to spit venom at people that get in his way... though we _were_ on the coast. Not many people out there to get in his way that he wasn't going to kill anyway."

"So you think the spirit has been good for him," Fenris said flatly as he laid a card down on the table, face up.

Varric shrugged. "Maybe. How should I know? When we were fighting, Hawke was just as savage and scary as he's always been. Scarier, even."

"How so?" Aveline asked, laying down a card.

"This one time," Varric said, "I saw someone sneaking up on him... quite stealthily, really. I was almost impressed. Hawke was busy, fighting one of their tanks. Blondie and Daisy was occupied, surrounded by six or seven guys trying to get through Daisy's, you know, her tree magic – where she makes roots and shit come out of the ground. Reaver was going after their archers and I was on the ground, out of breath because I'd just fought off a couple of guys at close range. So this sneaky bandit is coming up behind Hawke, raising her knives, getting ready to shove them into his spine. And Hawke wasn't wearing his armour – just hunting leathers. He's whaling on this guy in front of him with his sword, denting his armour, kicking him, snarling – you know how he gets. He was right into it, and for all I could tell he had no idea of this woman behind him about to stab him in the back."

Varric paused to take a nonchalant sip from his ale. The other three stared at him impatiently, waiting for him to continue.

"Well?" Donnic asked as Varric set down his mug, exhaling his relish.

"I was going to yell a warning," the dwarf continued. "I was pretty out of breath, but I was going to try. It would have been a close thing, anyways. As it turned out, I didn't need to. Hawke just... _whirled_ with his arm out at exactly the right moment, slashed her throat open with his claws, and turned back around to punch the other guy in the face before he'd even realized what was going on. It was like poetry."

Aveline was frowning thoughtfully. Donnic looked impressed, Fenris wary.

"He heard the bandit coming, then?" the elf asked.

"Maybe," Varric said, sliding another coin into the pile in the middle of the table. "There was a lot of general noise going on. Yelling, clanging, the dog barking – fighting noises, right? For all I know, Hawke could _smell_ her getting close to him. I think... I think more's changed about him physically than just the claws. A few times it seemed like he knew there were bandits nearby before the rest of us did – like he could hear them, or smell them maybe, from way farther off than we could."

"So what you're saying is that Hawke is actually _more_ dangerous now than he was before," Aveline said.

"Probably, yeah," Varric replied. "You – did hear the part about the claws, didn't you?"

"Wonderful," Aveline said sarcastically. She glanced down at the cards in her hand as Donnic laid one of his on the table.

"A lot of the guards and templar renegades seem to think we should be asking for his help," Donnic said, eyeing his wife carefully.

"With what?" Fenris asked.

Donnic glanced behind him furtively and said in a low voice, "You know... dealing with Meredith. Getting rid of her."

Fenris snorted. "That would cause a great deal more harm than good."

"Maybe it would," Varric said. "I usually try to stay out of this whole mage-templar thing, but... it's not hard to see Blondie's point sometimes. People are being tortured and killed for harbouring apostates or even just _talking_ to them... my contacts say Harrowed mages are being made Tranquil, which is supposed to be against the law. And Meredith only gets more paranoid and crazy every day. When will it stop, I wonder?"

"I suppose we'll see," Aveline said.

She snapped a card down on the table. Fenris blinked; Varric and Donnic crowed triumphantly.

**ασυνέχεια**

_17 Firstfall, 9:35 Dragon_

At the sound of a familiar grunt, Aveline looked up from the report she was examining and smiled at the sight of the dour-faced Champion at her door. She waved him in and he entered, closing the door behind him with his foot and sitting down across from her.

It was Hawke's turn to bring the spirits, and predictably, he'd chosen a stiff Fereldan rye, stored in a carved ceramic flask. Aveline recognized it, for Hawke had shown it to her before: it had belonged to Malcolm Hawke, one of the precious few things his family had been able to hang on to in their flight from Lothering five years previously. Aveline had always known, without asking, that Hawke, Bethany, and Leandra would all have smashed the flask to bits in a heartbeat if it meant they could have taken Carver with them instead. But such were the harsh facts of life in times of Blight.

As it was, the flask wasn't entirely intact; its stopper had been lost somewhere in their desperate flight through the Wilds. Now the neck of the flask, the intricate patterns carved into its neck worn smooth by decades of gentle fingertips, was sealed by a piece of simple cork. Aveline drew the two tumblers she used for these visits of Hawke's from a drawer in her desk and watched him use two claws to delicately pick the cork out of the flask. She thought it remarkable the fineness of the motor skills Hawke had developed in just a few short months to compensate for the changes in his body.

Other things had changed since then as well, Aveline mused, and not just Hawke.

Hawke still hadn't said anything yet as he poured them both two fingers of whiskey, so Aveline spoke. "Did you know I've been dead for five years? I got word last week."

Hawke glanced at her, and she smiled at the bemused expression on his face.

"They've only just sorted the casualties of Ostagar," Aveline explained. "The King has offered to reinstate the commission of any surviving officers who will return to Ferelden."

Hawke stared at her, one hand lifting his tumbler and the other placing the cork back into his flask with his eerie claw-dexterity. He took a sip, still staring. Aveline took a sip from her own glass and waited, savouring the fiery, oaky burn of the whiskey slipping down her throat.

"And?" Hawke said eventually.

"And what?" Really, his question was obvious, but Aveline wanted to hear him voice it.

Hawke spread his hand not holding his whiskey. "_Are you going to go_? I wouldn't blame you at all, Aveline."

That surprised her, but Hawke wasn't finished. "Ferelden's still rebuilding, repopulating – I'm sure Donnic would have no trouble finding work. With his experience he could even be an officer himself. And this city..."

His face twisted and his gaze slid sideways, seeing into some other, distant place.

"Nobody would blame you for hating this city," he said in a dark, quiet voice. "Least of all me."

Hawke rubbed the tips of two his claws together, still lost in thought. It was a habit Aveline had noticed the warrior developing over the past few months, apparently unconsciously. There was silence for a minute or two as she considered what Hawke had said. She sipped her whiskey and paused with her glass near her face to inhale its rich, heady scent. She considered how to articulate what she was thinking, and her thoughts went back to the missive she'd received.

"Do you ever think about that last night, at Ostagar?" Aveline asked. "How it happened?"

Hawke's eyes returned to her face. "How it happened? In what sense?"

"I don't mean the betrayal," Aveline said. "Everyone knows the signal went up and the flanking charge never came. But that moment when the tower lit and then... the fight just kept going."

Hawke watched her with a strange expression on his face – a mixture of sadness, anger, and understanding.

"It was the oddest feeling," Aveline said softly. "Hope answered with nothing. Do you ever – go back to that place, Hawke? In your thoughts, your dreams?"

"All the time," Hawke mumbled, staring into his glass.

A moment passed in silence; then Hawke raised his eyes to meet Aveline's. "It was an _empty_ place, once. When you see that many people dying around you, knowing there's nothing you can do, knowing it's only a matter of time before the – before _they_ get you too... and then to _survive_..." He blinked in a manner of slow incredulity. "It's a difficult place to exist in, that emptiness – but even harder to come back from unchanged."

Aveline nodded. She understood all too well what he meant. But something Hawke had said had piqued her curiosity.

"You said it was empty _once_," she said. "What do you mean? It isn't anymore?"

Hawke raised one eyebrow at her. "No. Come on, Aveline. You're a sharp lady."

She gave him an annoyed half-smile.

"Haven't you been watching me like a – forgive me, but like a hawk – for the past four months?" Hawke asked. "Looking for the spirit, waiting for subtle changes to become obvious, bating your breath for the moment my eyes burst with blue fire and I start talking in a resonant voice you can feel in your chest?"

Aveline pursed her lips in understanding and said nothing.

"Despair," Hawke said. "Sometimes I feel like that's all this city has ever had to offer. To anyone, not just to me. In a strange way..."

His voice trailed off, and he started again. "Before the – you know, the episode that I had – more and more, the despair was all I could see. It was building up inside me. It was toxic, it was choking me. It would have killed me if not for Anders. He kept a grip on my sanity even as he was losing a grip on his own."

"But after?" Aveline asked.

"The despair is still there," Hawke said. "Except now it's... different. It feels at once the same as it was but also less powerful. I don't know how to explain it. I believe things will be okay... I believe I'll be able to get through whatever this abscess of a city throws at me next. Even in the face of overwhelming contradictory evidence." He shook his head. "It's a strange thing, faith."

"You're not alone, Hawke," Aveline said.

"I know that." He sipped his whiskey. "But you never answered my question. Are you going back to Ferelden, or not?"

Aveline smiled. "I survived Ostagar once already," she said. "I don't like the thought of going out with a whimper, Hawke. Not again."

Hawke's lips quirked upward. "And here I was thinking you were actually considering going."

"It's been a challenging time here in Kirkwall," Aveline said. "But I have so much now, due in large part to you. Thank you, Hawke."

He gave her a rare, genuine smile, and another moment passed in companionable silence.

"Will you answer a question?" Aveline asked after taking another sip of whiskey.

"I might."

"Do you worry that the spirit inside you will turn you into..." She paused. "Into..."

"Into Anders?" Hawke asked dryly. "You're asking if I'm worried it will do to me what Justice has done to him?"

"Yes," Aveline said.

Hawke shrugged. "Justice was warped by Anders's hatred, his rage at the templars. He said once that spirits of Faith were by nature not as susceptible to distortion through their hosts' emotions."

"But?"

"I wonder, sometimes," Hawke went on. "I wonder if even Faith can be blackened by a deep enough well of despair."

Aveline felt a surge of sadness at his bleak tone. She reached out a hesitant hand towards him. "Hawke..."

But the warrior was standing up, tossing back the last of his whiskey and setting down the glass with a decisive _clink_. "I've got a job," he said. "I'll check back in a few days, yeah?"

And a moment later he was gone, away in a whisper of shifting air with the inhuman quickness he seemed to have picked up in the last few months. Aveline was left with her hand extended, uselessly, in concern. After a moment she slowly lowered her arm back to her desk.

The Guard-Captain picked up her tumbler and stared at the few drops of whiskey left in the bottom. She swirled them around a few times, thinking of Ferelden, Hawke, a certain templar she had once known. She drank, allowed herself a tiny sigh as she set the tumbler aside.

**ασυνέχεια**

_23 Harvestmere, 9:36 Dragon_

"Anders," Hawke said.

The warrior stood with his arms folded, staring thoughtfully into the fire on the other side of the bedroom from where Anders sat at the writing desk. The autumn chill lurked under an overcast sky just outside the window, kept at bay by the heat from the merrily crackling hearth.

Anders was absorbed in his manifesto, going over pages he'd already written and making corrections and additions. Hawke rarely bothered him when he was working, but something in his lover's voice made Anders look up. Hawke had his back to him, but he turned around to look Anders in the eye.

"What is it, love?" Anders asked.

"I can't stay here any longer," Hawke said.

For a confusing moment, Anders thought that Hawke was saying he was unhappy standing in front of the fireplace. Why didn't he just... move, then?

Anders gave himself a mental shake. Hawke never spoke unnecessarily. He was talking about something else.

"What do you mean?" he said curiously. "You want to move to a different estate?"

"No. I want to leave Kirkwall."

Anders was unpleasantly surprised, but worse was the sudden icy, subtle fear that gripped his heart. "What? _Why_, Michael?"

Hawke heaved a weary sigh and crossed the room to Anders's side. The mage stood up, staring at Hawke in concern. Hawke took Anders's hands in his own and ground his teeth, considering, before he answered.

"It's... this city," he said. "I've had enough of it. More than enough. This city killed my mother. It nearly killed me too, and you. And it's still trying. It won't ever stop."

Anders's face twisted as he tried not to panic. "Michael, you can't leave. You can't." I_ can't, and I need you._

Hawke squeezed his hands, and Anders squeezed back.

"Please, love." Hawke's voice caught. "Try to understand. I know – I know you said that you'd never leave me. But I also know that you won't leave Kirkwall and that you have to fight for what you believe." Hawke released one of Anders's hands to roughly brush tears away from his eyes. "I'll understand if you... if you want to..."

He leaned in for a brief kiss, and when their lips parted, Hawke said softly, "I release you from your promise."

"Michael, _no_," Anders said intensely. All thoughts of his manifesto had fled his mind, and he determinedly ignored the buzzing voice in his mind telling him to _let him go, let him go, accept his release while he offers it, this is our chance_. "What about... what about Charade? And Gamlen, I know you hate him, but-"

"I can write to Charade, and visit her now and then," Hawke said. "But I can't live in Kirkwall any more."

"What about the others?" Anders demanded. What he really meant was what about _me_, but Justice refused to let him say it aloud.

Hawke shrugged, avoiding Anders's gaze as he trailed an affectionate claw down the mage's arm. "What about them? Isabela's got her ship... Merrill's not going to be possessed by something that comes out of her mirror now that it's dead... Fenris killed Danarius. Aveline doesn't need me. Neither does Varric. They're fine."

Anders cast about desperately for something else to try. "You're the Champion."

Hawke laughed bitterly and turned away. "So what? What does that mean? It means I've bled for these people over and over and over again and what have I gotten in return? What has this city ever done for me except take everything I have? Even..."

His voice became hoarse as he turned back to Anders and embraced him with sudden passion. "Even you," he mumbled. "You're the one reason coming to Kirkwall in the first place wasn't the worst mistake of my life, Anders. You are why I'm still alive. You're what I _live for_. I'll never stop loving you... I'll never, ever stop believing in _us_. But I know – I know you have your own fight. I know it will always come – first." He didn't so much speak the last word as choke it.

Anders shook his head in mute despair, squeezing Hawke tightly against his chest as if only the strength of his arms would prevent his lover from leaving. He wanted so badly to deny it – he felt in the depths of his own heart that what Hawke was saying about the mages' cause coming before him was _wrong_. But Justice's whisper that it was utterly_ right_ suffused their shared mind, and the result was a stalemate: he could think of nothing to say.

"I'm going," Hawke murmured, trailing kisses along Ander's jaw to his ear. "You can't stop me, Anders, so don't try."

"But where will you go?" Anders said miserably.

They pulled apart and he stared into Hawke's eyes as the warrior spread his hands. "I don't know... Tevinter, maybe. Ferelden. Rivain. Isabela has a ship..."

Tears were streaming freely down Anders's face. "Michael-"

Hawke reached up and used a claw to flick away one of Anders's tears. "Don't cry, my love. I want so much for you to come with me... I want nothing more in the world. But if you can't, I'll understand."

Anders stared at him, biting his lip. Hawke leaned in close to inhale the mage's scent, stroking his cheek.

**ασυνέχεια**

_4 Cloudreach, 9:39 Dragon_

Time passed. Stories were told; new legends were born.

Aveline remained in Kirkwall, as did Varric. Diverse and cataclysmic changes rocked the ancient city, but some things remained the same.

One of these was the edifice once home to the Amell family and then, years later, to its scion, Michael Hawke. The potent wards that had been laid into its walls and foundation by Anders, Sandal, and others over the years made it a bastion of safety for anyone within.

For this reason and others, one chilly spring morning more than a year after Kirkwall had plunged into civil war and dragged much of Thedas with it, the estate which had once belonged to Michael Hawke was commandeered and made into the headquarters of the visiting Chantry Seekers.

Finding Varric Tethras and bringing him to the estate for interrogation proved difficult, but the resources of the Seekers were unmatched in southern Thedas. As it turned out, however, it was not Varric whom the Seekers were truly interested in. It took a moderate effort of persuasion, but presently Varric was convinced, and he began an extraordinary story.

**ασυνέχεια**

Night fell before Varric finished. In the common room of the Hawke estate, Cassandra Pentaghast paced, thoughtful eyes darting over the mildew-stained walls, the dusty curtains, and the broken, abandoned statuary without seeing any of it. Varric watched her carefully, unsure as to her intentions and still not knowing whether or not he would leave the estate with his life.

At last Cassandra seemed to come to some conclusion in her mind. She slowed to a halt before the chair in which Varric sat and turned to face him.

"So the Champion... _was_ possessed," the Seeker said, prompting her witness for more.

"_Is_," Varric corrected.

Cassandra's eyebrow arched.

"I seriously doubt he's dead," Varric elaborated. "As bleak as his mood was when he left, Hawke's never been the kind of guy to off himself. He might have been sick to death of this city, but he had a spirit of Faith inside him. He _can't_ give up. Not because he's stubborn and deadly determined – which he is – and not because he's an idiot – which he isn't. He is metaphysically _incapable_ of it. And I've told you enough about Michael Hawke by now that surely you must know it would take rather a lot to bring him down."

"Perhaps," Cassandra said. "How long after he merged with this spirit did the Champion remain in Kirkwall?"

Varric shrugged. "A year and a half or a little less. The wyrd incident happened around the solstice of '35; the winter of '36 was setting in when he left."

"And what happened afterward?"

Varric steepled his fingers. "After the incident, or after he left?"

"Both," Cassandra said tersely.

"Well... rather a lot," Varric said. "Before he left, there was a whole thing with Merrill and this ancient elven mirror she'd been trying to repair... Fenris's former master came back, so of course there was a big brouhaha in which Hawke was happy to help Fenris killed him... the corrupt Guard-Captain that Aveline had exposed came back to stir up trouble. Isabela got a new ship..."

Varric sighed. "My brother is still nuts, thanks for asking. I found a shard of the idol in his mansion – I think Hawke had his enchantment-happy dwarf turn it into a lyrium rune. All very interesting stories, but not, I think, what you're looking for."

"And _after_ he left?" Cassandra pressed. "The Chantry?"

"Well," Varric said with an amused cough. "Surely you know the details of _that_ better than I."

"No games, dwarf," Cassandra said severely. "From what you've told me about this Anders-"

Varric raised his hands and interjected. "I've told you already that I don't know if it was him, Seeker, and I swear on my mother that's true. I'm certain Hawke and Blondie were gone from the city by the time everything – fell apart – but I don't know of anyone _but_ the mage who could have orchestrated what happened. And I know _of_ many, many more people than I know personally."

Cassandra glared at him, plainly not satisfied.

"I looked into it," Varric admitted. "But there wasn't much I could find. Believe me when I say you probably know more than I do."

Cassandra sighed. "Do I need to remind you of what is at stake, Varric? Kirkwall is at war. _Thedas_ is at war, but this city is its epicenter."

That was true enough. Battle lines had long been etched into the city's consciousness, but only recently had they been fully realized. On one side, the power-mad Knight-Commander, Meredith Stannard, wreaking destruction with the bizarre and obscene magic of her lyrium blade; aiding her, all the templars too terrified to disobey her, lyrium smugglers coerced or threatened into confederation, and anti-mage fanatics blind to Meredith's own abuse of magic. On the other side, the Kirkwall City Guard and their captain, a faction of renegade templars led by Cullen and Thrask, the survivors of the Rite of Annulment, and the remnants of the nobility. Caught in between were the commoners, the people of Kirkwall whose allegiance lay with neither templars nor mages and who simply wanted to stay out of the way.

"I'm aware of the situation, Seeker," Varric said evenly. "But how is hearing any of what I've told you going to help? You've lost all the Circles. You've lost control of the templars. I thought you'd abandoned the Chantry to hunt mages."

"Not all of us desire war, Varric," Cassandra said. "The Champion has been at the heart of this city for much of the past decade. As much as he hated it, he is its greatest hero in centuries. Many would listen to him – he could stop this madness before it's too late. He may be the only one who can. Please, Varric. If there is _anything_ useful you can tell me..."

Varric frowned. "Is that what this is all about?"

After a contemplative silence, the dwarf shook his head regretfully. "I'm a storyteller, Seeker. I tell many people many different things, of varying degrees of truth, but I have told you stories – true stories – I have told and will tell no one else. I've told you everything I can think of that might help you find Hawke. I'll answer any more questions you have, but I doubt there is anything else of use you'll learn from me."

Cassandra grimaced. After a moment she said, "I believe you."

"Then am I free to go?" Varric asked. "Much as I enjoy your company, I do have other obligations."

Cassandra pressed a gauntleted fist to her forehead and nodded. "May the Maker watch over you during the dark times ahead of us."

"Same to you, Seeker," Varric said gravely as he stood up. "Same to you."

After he had departed, Cassandra paced for some time in the gloomy common room, chilly with neglect. Presently a graceful red-haired woman dressed in Seeker leathers which matched Cassandra's seemed to materialize in the shadows around the edges of the room. She watched Cassandra for a moment before stepping into the pallid light.

"Sister Nightingale," Cassandra said.

The woman smiled a greeting. "Did you-?"

Cassandra shook her head. "Gone," she said. "Just like the Warden." She handed Sister Nightingale a heavy, leather-bound book. The Seeker gazed down at the tome thoughtfully.

"That is no coincidence," she murmured.

"So do we proceed with the original plan, or keep looking?" Cassandra asked.

Sister Nightingale looked up at her. "It is in the Maker's hands now," she said.

Cassandra returned her gaze steadily for a moment before turning and making a gesture of command with one hand. Around them, the hidden Seekers began preparations to depart.

Cassandra and Sister Nightingale stepped outside into the damp coolness of the night. The air shivered with distant bursts of concussive force and echoes of screams. Without a word, Cassandra set out into the darkness with a contingent of the Seekers.

Sister Nightingale lingered a while longer, examining first the book in her hands and then the façade of the mansion behind her. Curiously, almost wistfully, she reached out to trace her fingers down a long, deep scratch in the door.

**END**


End file.
